The Inferno
by qqueenofhades
Summary: When Lucifer's mother drags Chloe into hell, he is forced to return in a desperate attempt to rescue her. But home is not how he remembers it, he may accidentally set off the apocalypse if he's not careful, and if he can't reach Chloe in time - even as she's beginning to discover power she never knew she had, and may not want to be saved - all will be lost forever.
1. Canto I

**Canto I**

Chloe Decker has no idea where she is.

There is nothing around her to every side but endless, swirling mist. There is no apparent source of light, but nor is it completely dark, just some eerie red half-glow like the sullen breath of a dragon. It's cold enough to make her shiver and clutch her arms, but she could swear that a second ago it was uncomfortably, breathtakingly hot, Los Angeles on a mid-July day with wildfires in the mountains and no rain for six months hot, strip off your clothes and dive into the nearest water hot, Death Valley record-breaking, tourist-killing hot. If it was, though, it's not any more. Her teeth are chattering almost hard enough to bite her tongue, and her breath wafts in frigid silver gusts. There is no sign to indicate which, if any, way she should go. She can't remember how she got here. Nothing, no hint of anything or anyone, moves in the shadows. Desolate does not even begin to describe it.

"Hello?" She takes a step. The ground seems firm, but with a strange, unpleasant give, as she tests it. It seems liable to hold her weight, so she chances a second one, fumbling for the gun usually at her belt. It's not there, and neither is her LAPD badge. Must have been lost in – whatever just happened. Her keys and her wallet, likewise. God, she's going to feel really stupid if some mugger got the jump on her (but would even the most desperate meth head really go after an _armed police officer?)_ and this is just a foggy back alley in Compton. She doesn't appear to be physically hurt, although there are two strange, ugly red burns encircling both her wrists that she can't account for. Was she in cuffs, and had to get out? But unless they were superheated, they can't have blistered and seared like that. Sick.

Chloe takes a third step, still hearing the echoes of her _hello_ careening off into the mist. She thinks the ground is sloping down underfoot, but it's hard to tell, and she spreads her arms, teetering along like a kid on the balance beam in gymnastics class. It would be really nice if she wasn't, you know, accidentally walking directly toward a cliff, and she feels with her foot before each step, making sure there isn't nothing but thin air beyond. But it at least keeps going, although she's not certain that is a good thing, and twists and turns and levels out into something like a garden labyrinth, with high black hedgerows to every side and a chain of slick stepping stones leading into it. Mist clads the entire thing in a silent, icy shroud.

"Right," Chloe mutters, blowing on her freezing hands and tucking them into her armpits as she regards the utterly forbidding prospect. She's pretty sure there isn't anything like this in Compton, and she's hard pressed to think where else it might be, either. Definitely maximum points for creepy effort. All they need is an evil scarecrow pinned up at the entrance, daring anyone brave enough to face the Maze of Terror, like a Halloween haunted-house or spooky cornfield attraction. That's never really been Chloe's thing, but she's a homicide detective. She sees tons of worse things on a daily basis, and not for entertainment. They – whoever _they_ are –are not going to scare her. Or for that matter –

A murder of huge black crows bursts out of the hedge directly in front of her, shrieking and flapping, beaks and claws tearing at her hair as she screams and shields herself with her arms, as they take flight in a cawing, writhing mass. Chloe stays crouched down, heart hammering against her ribs so hard she thinks it might break them, until she's absolutely sure they're gone. Fuck. _Fuck._ Okay. Maybe they're going to scare her a little. Only once, though.

At that, she hears her own voice in her head, telling Trixie that the best way to stop being afraid of something is to face it. Solid practical advice. The deep end of the pool isn't so scary once you've been in a few times. The half-open closet can be investigated with a flashlight and showed to contain no monsters. Whatever is in there, it won't be as bad as it would be if she just keeps huddling here and psyching herself out. They're just birds. Yes, she's seen the Alfred Hitchcock movie, but that is beside the point. They caught her off guard once. Now she's ready.

Ignoring the slightly watery feeling in her knees, Chloe rocks to her feet and makes her way toward the mouth of the maze, wondering if the Triwizard Cup is hidden at the center. Which, considering it would then transport her to Voldemort's rebirthday party, is probably to be avoided. The hedges have thorns on them the size of daggers, so she has to be careful not to brush too closely. Whoever owns this place must really not be into visitors. Or anyone, really.

The sky is a dun dark blue, like a winter sunset just before the solstice. Ash sifts from it like snow, settling in Chloe's hair and shoulders, and it rasps between her fingers when she tries to brush it off, makes her cough when she breathes it in. The stepping stones are increasingly cracked and jagged beneath her feet, the path zigging and zagging, as the air grows darker and lower and Chloe can taste a distinct note of sulfur in the back of her throat. What is this, near a hot spring or something? How did she get this far away from the city? For some reason, the mugger hasn't taken her phone, but when she pulls it out of her pocket, the screen is cracked and blank. She shakes it, as if this will magically produce some bars, but all it does is tremble slightly – then, as she drops it with a yelp – explode, fizzing red-hot electric bits all over the slippery stones. Right then. No calling 911, which is fine. She can handle this.

After a few more – minutes, she thinks, but it's awfully hard to tell time for some reason – she emerges into the center of the maze. No Triwizard Cup, which is good (presumably). Just a fountain of some sort, overseen by a not-at-all-foreboding stone angel, filled with dark, clear water that reflects her face like a black mirror. There is no apparent other way out of the maze; the wall of thorns rises impassably to all sides. Either she goes back the way she came – if that is indeed the way she came – or, clearly, she drinks. There is a cup next to the water, a silver goblet. For no apparent reason, it seems to be smoking slightly.

Chloe looks back over her shoulder. Maybe it isn't too late. She can still retrace her steps, climb out of the maze – she's prepared for the crows this time, they can't scare her – get back through the mist, and. . .. find wherever she came from. There has to be a door, or a path, or something. There has to be some way out. Or maybe this is just a bad dream, which explains why she can't remember anything and nothing seems to make particular sense, the way the world is blurred and jumpy at the edges like a badly edited film. Feels incredibly real while it's happening, but then vanishes when you wake up, and hence it doesn't actually matter what you do. She already tried pinching herself and that didn't work, but perhaps different rules apply. To. . . whatever this is.

There used to be an opening in the hedge walls behind her. Now there's not. The mist is getting thicker and blacker. So is the reek of brimstone.

Chloe hesitates an instant longer, then picks up the goblet, dips it in the water, and drinks.

All at once, something happens. Everything snaps like a stretched rubber band, dancing and reeling and crumbling, and the ground goes out from beneath her, and she's stumbling and struggling, fingernails trenching out the freezing earth, as the walls of the maze vanish and do does the mist and the stones and the fountain, and it's dark and it's dark and it's dark and she doesn't even have enough sense of things to know if she's falling, or she's just suspended in sheer nothingness. Then out of nowhere a bottom comes rushing up, smacks her in the chest hard enough to wind her completely, and she rolls over and sprawls out, fruitlessly sucking air and ragging and retching. Thinks suddenly of lying on her back among the broken glass of Jimmy Barnes' recording studio, shot in the shoulder, tear tracking down her cheek. _I don't want to die._ Lucifer above her, hand on her face. _Chloe. . .. I'm afraid Father's just going to have to wait for you._ Met her less than twenty-four hours ago and already certain she's going to heaven, shielding her with his body. Jerking and grimacing as he's shot six times and somehow not a scratch – but then she shot him later and he –

Oh God (especially ironic, considering, but still). Lucifer.

Where the hell (even more ironic) is Lucifer?

The burns on her wrists – there's something there in her head, a face, half-human and half-something more, disintegrating every instant into something beyond terrible, bad enough that her brain has blocked it out. A voice hissing like a snake. _Oh, my name isn't Charlotte Richards. That's just what they call this useless flesh sack I borrowed. My name – my_ real _name – is –_

Chaos and static whirl in Chloe's head. The word emerges like a searing brand.

 _Lilith._

Charlotte – no, Lilith – grabbing her wrists. Something shifting, tearing, opening up. _And if I'm going back to hell – if that's what all of this has come to – then my son pays the same price. You're coming with me, little mortal. We go down together._

A frantic, furious pounding on the door. Lucifer shouting, screaming. _Detective. Detective! Mother! Mother, don't you dare – I swear I'll tear you apart, eternity of torment doesn't begin to cover it – you won't – you'll never –_

The door bursting open. Her eyes locking onto his. His lips shaping around a word – no, two.

 _Chloe! No!_

And then, nothing.

Chloe lies there shaking as the memories rip through her like a hot knife. She doesn't want to face it, doesn't want to wrap her head around it, but if that is what happened, if that's what's going on – no, there has to be another explanation – but she knows there isn't. Despite all her disbelief and skepticism and tolerant humoring of Lucifer's supposedly cosmic origins, she's never really _bought_ it – because who would? But what's left in her mangled, melted, overloaded brain is enough. Char – _Lilith,_ as in Mother of Demons Lilith – she has taken her – taken her –

Chloe sits up slowly, bruised and dazed and breathless. She's not a crier or a screamer or otherwise someone given to open displays of strong emotion, has learned to hold it in. A detective doesn't do the job by bleeding her feelings everywhere, after all. But this is something she can't solve, a case she has no idea where to even begin, and she's well aware that she is in far, far over her head. If it's true – if it –

"What the hell," she says out loud. A demented giggle escapes her lips, cracking on the edge of a sob. "I think I'm in hell."

* * *

Up on Chloe's previous plane of existence, Lucifer Morningstar is, in fact, losing his mind.

"This is all your fault!" he snarls at Amenadiel, having torn through the penthouse for about the fifth time, leaving a trail of broken glasses, scattered books, upturned cushions, and tilted furniture in his wake and having confirmed that the hellmouth is closed, Mum and Chloe are gone without a trace, and there is no way to reopen it. "I don't have my bloody Pentecostal coin because I had to use it to stop that filthy maggot you hired to kill me, I likewise wouldn't have been shot and had to make that deal with Dad if not for him, and since you made me burn my bloody wings and Maze used the last feather to save your pitiful life, and now you're being punished for your abject failure and lost _your_ wings and your powers – _this is all your fault!"_

Amenadiel is ashen-faced and groping for a denial that doesn't seem to present itself. "Luci – look, Mom escaped from hell in the first place because you – "

"Escaped because I left, yes, we bloody know that. Escaped after you carried her down there yourself, ever the good little foot soldier for Dad!" Lucifer's eyes are entirely aglow like cinders, his face slipping between its handsome human form and the raw red skull of the torturer, the one all the worst see when they're mewling and begging and suffering for their sins, drawn back into its insane rictus of a smile. "I've let you live too long, _brother._ Some of us just don't change after all, do we? I don't, and neither do you. And I don't think you're just skipping home to cavort among the heavenly daisies and play divine tiddlywinks with Uriel! No, I think I'm going to really enjoy flaying you limb from _bloody_ limb!"

"Luci, don't –" Amenadiel raises his hands. "Listen to me – "

"Oh no! Not this time! Not until you pay for this!"

With that, Lucifer launches headfirst at his brother, hammering every inch of him he can reach, as Amenadiel tries to defend himself without hitting back (much). They wrestle and grapple around the living room, crashing against the piano with a jangling bong, as Lucifer gets his fists into Amenadiel's collar and bangs him against the keys as if trying to perform an especially thunderous and furious version of Wagner. Amenadiel rolls away, but Lucifer is right there to meet him. Amenadiel decides on the spot that his principled pacifist stance isn't going to save his hide on this one, and throws a punch back, staggering Lucifer back against the desk; books tumble out in an avalanche as he spits blood from a broken lip. He's just tensing to spring when the elevator door dings, a demon dagger hisses through the air and lodges in the far wall, and they are startled just long enough for Maze to yell, _"Enough!"_

They whirl on her, but she doesn't back down. "Why do I always have to stop you two Neanderthals from killing each other? Honestly, I think it would be a favor to everyone if I didn't bother. What the hell's going on? Where's Charlotte? I saw her come up here with your pet detective, and there's no way that can have – "

"No," Lucifer snarls. "No, it can't possibly go well, can it? Brother dearest, care to explain?"

"We all tried to warn you! I did, Uriel did! If you didn't leave your human job and focus on stopping Mom like you promised, there were going to be – "

"Consequences?" Lucifer's lips peel back in an even more terrifying smile. He stalks to the bar, grabs the nearest bottle, twists the top off without looking, and gulps half of it down at a go. "You thought I somehow didn't know what those were? Such as the fact that they only ever seem to happen to me, and not to you?"

"They happened to me!" Amenadiel takes a step, as wind starts to whistle through the broken plate-glass windows of the balcony. "Like you said, I've lost my powers, my wings! You're right, a lot of this is my fault, and I've only barely started to pay for it!"

"Oh, Daddy's slapping you on the wrist after millennia of pummeling me like a prizefighter? Yes, that sounds like a perfectly fair and equitable punishment!" Lucifer finishes the other half of the bottle and throws it violently on the floor, where it explodes in glittering glass shards. "Hurts, doesn't it, Amen? You haven't gone through the merest fraction, the merest _bloody_ fraction, of what I have, and I don't think there's enough eternity to make it up to you! Maze, give me that knife, I'm killing him right here."

Maze retrieves the knife and replaces it somewhere in her skintight leather catsuit, which somehow contains an improbable quantity of deadly weaponry. "I don't think I will."

"You're my demon, Mazikeen." Lucifer's eyes look like the heart of an erupting volcano. "You do as I say. I own you. _Now."_

"In hell, maybe. But you know what? Things are different in the human world." Maze's eyes flash back at him. "And I never thought I'd be the one to say it, but maybe that's not so bad. You want that knife, come here and take it. And make sure you don't get a scratch from it either."

There is an exceedingly fraught pause, as Lucifer contemplates the possibility of doing just that. Maze shifts her weight, bracing for an attack, as the lights flicker with the force of the uncontrolled supernatural energy burning through the air – a bulb explodes with a puff and a clatter, and the pages of the fallen books flutter madly in the gathering storm. Amenadiel is thinking that he might in turn be forced to tear them apart, which could well end up with all three of them dead, but after a moment, Lucifer backs down. The red glow goes out of his eyes, and his face reverts to human. He looks utterly wrecked. "Both of you. Just get bloody out of here."

"What are you going to do?" Not sure he wants to know, and sorely feeling the need for a stiff drink himself, Amenadiel grabs a wine bottle out of the glass-fronted cupboard, twists out the cork, and takes a slug. "If it's something stupid – "

"Oh no, all my actions are perfectly wise and reasoned, didn't you know?" Lucifer bares his teeth. "If nothing else, I do need to plan out how I'm going to punish you for the next few thousand years. If you have anything useful that might induce me to knock a century off your sentence here and there, now would be the time to offer it."

Amenadiel and Maze exchange a helpless look. It's Maze who wades into the breach. "She took Chloe, didn't she? I told you, Lucifer. I told you that your mother was up to no good, but you wouldn't even listen to – "

"Yes, go ahead and chastise me, you're as comforting as lemon juice in a paper cut!" Lucifer coils his fist back and slams it into the bar counter, causing the fine black marble to splinter a webwork of cracks. "If we catch up to her, you can be sure that you will have my _blessing_ to inflict anything you can think of on her – no wonder Dad's stupid thing is forgiving people, not mine, because nobody bloody deserves to be forgiven! Just so they can turn around and stab you in the back when it'll hurt the most? Shows what an idiot I let myself be played for, eh?"

"Luci – " Amenadiel has no idea how to get through to him. Knows that their mother expertly preyed on Lucifer's scars of abandonment and exile, reached that small wounded part of him that still hungered for the love of his parents, the chance to come home, the reunion of the family torn apart quite literally between heaven and hell, and now that she has burned that, there is nothing but scorched earth. He's utterly unpredictable now, dangerous and vengeful and merciless, and leaving him to it would be the worst mistake Amenadiel has ever made – and by now, he has to admit grimly, that is saying quite something. But you can't stand next to a blaze like this for too long without it consuming you too, and there is no safe way to even consider the task that lies implied and terrible before them. Feeling like a man trying to cross a minefield, blindfolded, Amenadiel has to carefully point out the obvious corollary. "Lucifer, your detective. . . she's mortal."

"Thank you for that observation, Captain Obvious! Anything else you care to – "

"If Mom did take her to hell. . ." Amenadiel hesitates. "The only mortals that go down there are the bad dead ones. Except for the one time that Italian poet decided to pop in for a visit, but – " He hesitates again. As gently as he can, he says, "It's entirely possible she didn't survive the trip."

He wants to bite his tongue the instant the words are out. He has never seen a look like that on his brother's face – or anyone's, really. A look of such naked desperation and panic and cutting anguish, as if he's just ripped Lucifer's spine out and it's only an accident that he's still standing up. At that, Amenadiel knows at once that it's far more of a mess than he thought. Oh, God. Not the Devil Incarnate, not the Prince of Darkness, not with a mortal woman. It's not possible, it's never – no, this is going to make the entire imbroglio so many uncounted degrees worse. Nobody says anything, until Lucifer whispers in a chillingly hoarse and hollow voice, "If she's dead, so are you. So are all of you."

Maze's eyes flicker. Even she doesn't try to tell him that it's just another short-lived human, that it should make no more difference to him than a moth flying into the light. "Look," she says, clearly striving to be reassuring, in her own Maze way. "We know the detective is a tough little human, and she's immune to you. You're the ultimate source of hell's power. If that's the case, she won't react like a regular mortal. I can imagine it's not exactly the greatest day of her life, but I really don't think she's dead."

Lucifer's awful expression likewise shifts, trembles, as he looks away from both of them. His shame and guilt and fear is almost overwhelming, filling the room with a shadow as tangible as the threat of his rage. He clenches a fist, opening and closing his fingers as if in search of a suitable neck to strangle, the black stone in his ring winking in the half-glow of the shattered bulbs. At last he says, "Mum is still on the loose in hell. If she opens all the cages – "

"All the damned souls would likewise escape." Amenadiel doesn't even want to think about it. "She could lead them as an army in a second war against Dad. The human world would be caught in the crossfire. It would be. . ." He doesn't need to say the word. They're all thinking it. "Luci, you know we can't let her do that."

"Oh no?" Lucifer's lips are dead white, even as he's starting to smile maniacally. "I'm not sure how exactly that's _my_ responsibility to stop. I could do with a good war against Dad! I'm a bit of a leading expert on the topic, you know! Maybe it would actually induce him to step in and protect his little human science project in its tank in the garage, rather than pouring more and more water on the anthill and amusing himself seeing if they can scuttle free in time! Get me some bloody popcorn and a lawn chair, I'll sit back and watch the show!"

Amenadiel winces. "Lucifer," he says. "I know you care about humans. You always have. That's why you like punishing the bad ones, because you hate seeing what they did to the ones who didn't deserve it. Because it feels good to you to be the one to mete out their just desserts. And that's why you've never been a senseless killer. Your own sense of justice runs too deep to allow innocents to suffer, and you haven't lost that driving force, even after all this time. And that's what the world will be, if they get caught in a war between our parents. It would be punishing the innocent, not the guilty. And you don't do that."

Lucifer's eyes smoke back at him like a supernova, but he doesn't have anything to say to that. Finally, however, he comes up with his stirring rebuttal. "You're a dick."

"Noted."

"A really big, ugly, hairy, veiny one. With wrinkly balls."

"Noted," Amenadiel says, with somewhat more of an edge. "I'm sorry about Chloe. I really am. I never wanted her to be hurt, you know that. I tried – "

"Oh yes, you try so well. Gold star king of the world, that's you. Too bad it never amounts to more than a miserable damn. Why couldn't Dad have just kept her safe, without making me bargain for it?" Lucifer's almost in tears. "Always has to spit in your face even when he's supposedly doing you a favor! She did not deserve that! She did not deserve any of it! But since when does he care how many of them do or not? Probably laughing his arse off right now!"

"Luci." Amenadiel very cautiously ventures an approach. "You're right. Chloe's innocent. No innocent person has ever been dragged bodily into hell before, especially when they're still alive. Like Maze said, it changes the rules. If we can find a way to follow them – "

"So what?" Lucifer looks at him scathingly. "You can accidentally shut the door behind me and throw away the key? How convenient for you if you can just trick me back into hell and make sure I stay this time, like a good little devil! Get your wings back and you're all bloody set!"

Amenadiel winces again, not least because the thought admittedly, for half a second, crossed his mind. "I swear. I'm not going to do that."

"Sorry, bro. Don't believe you." Lucifer takes out a cigarette and lights it with shaking hands, blowing a stream of smoke into Amenadiel's face. "And I don't want any help you think you're planning to offer. Go have four-letter relations with yourself. I'm handling this alone."

"Lucifer." Maze moves forward. "That's insane. You can't fix this, you can't face both your parents and whatever else has happened in hell while you've been gone, by yourself. You've been living and indulging in the human world for too long, you're not as strong as you used to be. At least let me come with you."

"Oh? I'll think about it." Lucifer takes a drag. "Right, thought about it. Answer's no."

"What? I'm your – I'm – " Maze struggles for the right term, having shut down his old possessive streak earlier. "Let's be honest, I can kick a lot more ass than you can right now. We can leave Amenadiel out of it, I don't care. Just you and me. Like old times." She saunters closer, plucks the cigarette from Lucifer's fingers, takes a drag of her own, and places it slowly back into his mouth. "It'll be fun."

"It bloody well will not be _fun."_

"Wait," Amenadiel says. "No, you can't leave me out of it."

"I'm sorry?" Lucifer looks around with an exaggerated expression of confusion, holding a hand to his ear. "Is somebody talking?"

"Luci, I – " Amenadiel is vastly tempted to reach back for the wine bottle, but he's trying to break the habit. "I want a chance to redeem myself."

"Ask Dad, then, if the line's not busy. I hear he's in the habit of giving those out, just never to the people who want one. As for the devil, amigo – " Lucifer flips the cigarette butt over his shoulder, where it smokes and sputters on the counter, and grins mercilessly. "No can do."

And with that, he whirls on his heel, snatching his jacket off the chair and shrugging it on so violently that he almost tears it. Maze reaches for him, but he dodges away from her hand. Steps into the elevator, pushes the button, and as the doors close, is swallowed in shadow, and sinks.

* * *

After a lot of sitting in one place, blinking very hard, pinching her arms black and blue, and everything else she can possibly think of has failed to wake her up, Chloe is faced with the ludicrous fact that this appears to be happening, and she'd better get up and do something about it. Put on her big girl panties, as the saying goes. She's not sure where she was now – the waiting room of hell, as opposed to the front vestibule? Is she supposed to wait for some infernal bureaucrat to appear and process her papers (if this place looks like the DMV, she will not be surprised)? She doesn't have those. Will they decide there's been a mistake and just put her on a plane back to the mortal world? Or just shrug and invoke the "you broke it, you bought it" rule?

Chloe takes a ragged breath through her nose and starts to walk. She thinks she can see buildings in the distance, rising through a heavy film of smog that's worse even than L.A. on a particularly bad day, but they keep flickering and sputtering out of focus. It's impossible to judge distance or any kind of spatial relation, really, and the ground is squelching underfoot, water lapping at her ankles. It's cold, it's really fucking cold. Isn't hell supposed to be hot? Not that she's especially eager to broil either, but this is getting on her nerves. She's from California, anything lower than fifty degrees Fahrenheit is jacket weather. Unless the whole point is to –

"Mommy?"

Chloe's heart flips sickeningly in her chest. She skids to a halt, looking madly in every direction, feeling as if she's been punched. No, oh no – did Lilith somehow get her claws into – if she isn't the only one that a very angry demon dragged down here – no, _no –_

"Trixie?" She starts to run. "Trixie, baby, is that you?"

"Mommy?" The voice is closer now, just a few yards away in the fog, and she can see a faint, small silhouette out in the water. Trixie is bedraggled and shivering and scared-looking, perched on a slick black rock. "Mommy? Can we go home?"

"Don't move. I'm coming to get you." Chloe takes a step, and immediately plunges into freezing water up to her thighs with a small shriek. Her heart continues to bang against her ribs like a drum. How did she – it's all she can do to fight off total panic. The water is up to her chest now, and she has to kick off and start swimming, fighting shock from the cold – she knows how fast you get paralyzed, and then you die, in water this temperature. She doesn't know if that applies here or not, but she's in no hurry to find out. "I've got you, baby, I've got you, I'm coming."

Trixie looks at her with huge, terrified dark eyes. The water level is starting to creep up her rock, and Chloe isn't making much headway. "Mommy, I'm scared."

Chloe tries to answer, but her breath is being knocked out of her. Every stroke feels as if she's taking it through molasses. "Trix. . ." she gasps. "Trixie, just hold on, I'll – "

The water is now up around Trixie's waist, and she's standing desperately on her tiptoes trying to stay above it. "Mommy!"

"Don't move!" Chloe can't feel her hands, or her arms, and the rock still isn't getting any closer, and the water is up around Trixie's chest, and her daughter's lips are turning blue, and she can't control the searing, desperate terror slicing through her head like a buzzsaw, as Trixie kicks feebly but can't go anywhere. Then a wave breaks over the rock from behind, toppling Trixie head over heels and knocking Chloe herself like a bowling pin struck with the ball, and it's a tumbling, seething greyness like being caught in a washing machine, and when she surfaces, she can't see anything anywhere. No rock. No Trixie. Nothing but endless, crashing emptiness.

"TRIXIE!" she screams, kicking forward, gulping and diving, forcing her eyes open against the stinging dark water, sculling madly with her hands, gasping and choking in horror. She used to have a nightmare like this, about being at the beach one day and seeing Trixie get caught in a riptide or something, pulled out to sea and drowned before she could do a thing. "TRIXIE, NO!"

Nightmare. Nightmare. This is hell. Trixie isn't here, this isn't happening, this is just a trick it's playing on her to break her, and Jesus, it just about worked completely. Still gasping in terror, Chloe closes her eyes, pressing her hands to her face, gulping down her shaking sobs. "This isn't real," she mutters to herself, over and over like a mantra. "This isn't real. This isn't real."

Something shifts around her, and when she opens her eyes again, the ocean has gone. She's dripping wet and shivering, but she's standing on dry land, at the entrance to the strange, desolate city beyond. It looks like Los Angeles in a post-apocalyptic film, a few hundred years after the zombie takeover or whatever, windows broken and tumbleweeds drifting down deserted eight-lane highways, walls mossed over and the skyscrapers tilted and tumbling. She expects to see a wrecked spaceship or something, some quarantine zone. Nothing.

Chloe hugs herself tighter and starts to trudge up the beach. By the time she reaches the road beyond, her clothes are inexplicably dry, and she wonders insanely if she's supposed to thumb a ride from some passing car (is hitchhiking in actual hell any more dangerous than hitchhiking in the real world? You have to wonder). But there is no car coming, and she walks down the cracked sidewalk, doing her best to come up with a plan. Plan. Plan. Plan.

She has no plan. She has no idea what to do. She has no way of getting home and no clue what awaits her down here, if Lilith is coming back for a second round, or if she's just going to exist, in stasis, forever. She thought purgatory was the place where nothing happened, where you were supposed to expiate your sins, but then, this is hardly her area of expertise. She vainly hopes that maybe it _is_ purgatory, as that sounds preferable to hell, but she knows better.

At last, she reaches what would be downtown in a real city, though of course there's nobody here. Junked, burned-out cars are parked along the street, and she keeps having the sense that she's being watched, whipping her head around every other second and still catching nothing. She's starving, not to mention exhausted, but she has a vague memory of some story somewhere – Hades and Persephone? – that if you eat the food of the underworld as a mortal, you have to stay forever. It doesn't seem worth risking it.

Finally, up ahead, she sees something that looks like a person, and runs toward it, bracing herself for the possibility that it's going to be a half-rotted skeleton or a human with a monster's face, something else sinister and sick and twisted. "Excuse me. Excuse me!"

The – it seems to be a person, at least, not quite young or old, male or female, unsettlingly blank, featureless – looks up at her like a badly wound clockwork. "Name?"

"My name's Chloe Decker. I don't think I'm supposed to be here." She shifts back and forth, glancing over her shoulder again. God, this place is creepy. She went to Japan with a boyfriend when she was eighteen, explored some of the abandoned amusement parks and empty islands and "Suicide Forest" at the foot of Mount Fuji, all the recklessness and invincibility of the young, and all that doesn't even come close. "Can you possibly just. . . send me back?"

"Nobody goes back." The not-person doesn't appear interested. "You only go on."

"I don't – I'm not going there, I'm not – "

All at once it looms above her. It doesn't look anything like a person anymore, and the shadow it casts is hideous. _"GO. ON."_

Chloe bites her lip smartly enough to taste blood, turns on her heel, and does her best to walk, not run, away from it at a measured pace, down the road beyond. This appears to be the first port of call for new arrivals. There are other people for sure, but none she exactly wants to talk to, shuffling in a long line that wraps back and forth into a low steel building. Check-in for the damned, apparently. Even worse than your average TSA screening.

At any rate, Chloe isn't about to find out. She starts walking faster, as if they won't notice. Lucifer has to be coming for her, she tells herself. After what just happened – after they – well, the point is, there's no way he's just going to sit back, say, "Well, that's unfortunate," and wander off to see what's on Pay-Per-View. Unless he did, just went down to Lux for a drink and a beautiful woman to salve his pain and will be completely fine and dandy by tomorrow – but for better or worse, she doesn't think so. He'll get down here, they'll deal with his mother, and then they'll book it out of here. She just has to not go crazy until he does.

There's something that looks like a hotel up ahead. _You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave,_ she thinks, and has to bite her lip. Lets herself in, crosses the dingy carpet to the front desk, and raps on it. The poor soul behind it was clearly someone who treated service staff badly in life, and is now subject to being one and dealing with the literal customers from hell for all eternity. It's a fitting punishment, really, and Chloe can't help but admire the artfulness of it, feel the prick of a strange curiosity to know, to do more. "Can I help you?" it drones.

"I need a room for the. . ." Do night and day exist down here? "I need a room."

"Can I have your name please?"

"Chloe. Chloe Decker."

At that, it looks up. Something lights in its dull eyes. For the first time in however long since it died, something seems to come over it, excitement, attention. "Chloe? _Chloe Decker?"_

"Yes." Is Lucifer here already? Is he waiting for her? Is this all about to end? Please, oh please, oh please. "Why?"

"My lady." The soul – it's hard to tell much about it, the same way it was with the gatekeeper, after a few endless years of suffering, it wears you away – gets to its feet, babbling and bowing. "My lady. Come with me, please. At last. At last. We've been waiting for you."


	2. Canto II

**Canto II**

 **Earlier That Day**

The squad car pulls up at the side entrance of Lux, Chloe parks, kills the engine, and as she glances into the back seat, allows herself to hope that this is almost over. Charlotte Richards sits with cool dignity, despite the fact that she's cuffed with something that Lucifer says is supposed to blunt her demonic powers. Once they get her upstairs, the plan is for Lucifer and Amenadiel to alert their father that she's here and. . . Chloe isn't sure, the house falls on the Wicked Witch and all the Munchkins do their happy dance? Totally ordinary evening at the office, of course. And while Chloe doesn't know about demonic powers exactly, she can't deny that this woman, whom both the woman herself and Lucifer insist is his mother, an all-powerful cosmic being trapped in a stolen human body, has caused more than enough chaos for everyone. If Scotty is going to beam her up and get her out of their lives for good, Chloe is more than on board.

"Let's go." She sets the parking brake, and she and Lucifer get out of the front of the cruiser, going around the back and hauling Charlotte out. Lucifer pulls especially hard; Chloe knows that he feels responsible for the deaths of Mr. Richards and the kids, since he sent his mother to play out the human life she had borrowed without realizing that she had the full array of her abilities. At least, that's what he's told Chloe, and she's not going to dispute that there is something very _wrong_ with this woman. Putting her in a human prison would be a bloodbath.

"Lucifer, honey," Charlotte says, as the two of them march her into the elevator. "You know it's still not too late to change your mind. I'm sorry about the humans, but they're just so _breakable._ I can buy you some new toys, if you want. Like good mothers do."

"They weren't toys, Mum." Chloe has rarely seen Lucifer this angry, but in a seething, silent way, lips pressed white, eyes black. "They were people. They were _innocent_ people. And I don't want to hear another word from you. You're going back to hell, and you're never, ever getting out again. That's a _bloody_ promise."

Charlotte shrugs and sighs as the elevator dings shut and they ride up to the penthouse, where Amenadiel and Maze are waiting as the reinforcements. Amenadiel avoids his mother's eyes as Charlotte looks at him significantly, as it's plain that while he might fully agree with the necessity of curtailing her reign of terror and sending her back to the abyss from whence she came, he still really, really does not want to take on the guilt of doing it again. Chloe can't keep up with all the dynamics of their wacky and dysfunctional family, as she's certainly had to accept by now that there are a lot of things about all of them that she can't explain, and that she might see something tonight to make her finally and permanently suspend her disbelief. But as Amenadiel and Maze escort Charlotte off to prepare for. . . whatever they're going to do, her concern is decidedly for one of them. "Lucifer, are you all right?"

He glances up at her, then away. He has been even more impossible to read than usual recently. Always not quite telling her something, trying to keep her away from Charlotte while Chloe thought she might be an old (or new) girlfriend of his and didn't know why that bothered her so much – then, post-visit of someone called Uriel, apparently another brother, going full-on mental. Reverting in an instant to feckless, selfish, playboy Lucifer who can't keep his attention on anything for longer than five seconds, clashing with her, pushing her away, making a spectacle of how much he clearly doesn't care, doesn't care at all. Then when they found out the truth of her father's death, he somehow pulled himself together and was there for her like all that crazy didn't just happen a few days ago. Until finally she started to wonder if he thought he was pushing her away to protect her, that if he could get her to stop caring about him, she'd leave, and be safe. Even if it meant he'd be completely bloody miserable once she did.

"Fine, Detective," he says now, in a voice that sounds scarcely more convincing than when she asked him that question after Father Frank's death, knowing he wasn't. He forces a smile. "It will be quite a relief to have this over. Throw a party or something. Order extra hookers."

"Lucifer," she says again. She isn't going to let him get away this time. "Talk to me."

He rubs a hand across his face. "I. . . really, what's there to say? With minimal thanks to me, we've finally recaptured my bloody mother after she's killed however many humans, including Mr. Richards and the children, and I've been. . . I. . . with you and Ella and Maze and Dan and Amenadiel and everyone else I've had anything to do with recently. . . Detective, why haven't you just given up on me yet? I've provided you ample reason. Why won't you just. . . go?"

"What?" Chloe takes a step. "What are you talking about? We're _partners._ And more than that, we're friends.I don't know why you've been so off the handle, but that doesn't mean I'm just going to write you off and move on. I've told you before, I like. . . I really like working with you, and it's more than work, it's. . . I trust you. I've told you that. Do you want me to? Leave?"

"No!" It burns out of him almost too fast to control, as he looks as if he wants to bite his tongue off. "No. I just. . . I wanted you to be. . ." He stops. "I wanted you to be safe."

"And how am I not safe with you? You're the one who could supposedly go back to being immortal and bulletproof all the time if you quit hanging out with me." Chloe manages a crooked smile of her own, even as she thinks she can feel a faint crack in her heart, and this time, knows all too well why it is. "So. . . why?"

Lucifer looks up at the ceiling, as if hoping for it to burst open and some very loud distraction (or dead body) to fall out and save them from having this conversation. It doesn't. At long last he says, "Because of Malcolm."

" _Malcolm?_ He's dead, remember? We killed him. You followed me and saved my life." Chloe reaches for his hand. "He can't have anything more to do with us."

"Not directly, Detective. But because of what. . . happened when he shot me." Lucifer's eyes flicker to their hands, her smaller fingers curled around his long ones, as he instinctively tenses but doesn't quite pull back. "I. . . I died. But before I did, I promised – Dad – that I would do as he wanted, go wherever he ordered, if he. . ." He closes his eyes briefly. "If he would keep you safe."

"Wh. . ." Chloe can't even get the entire word out. To say the least, she did not see this coming. She feels winded. One of the things she certainly can't explain was how she saw Malcolm pull the trigger, saw Lucifer on the floor of the hangar bleeding out, and then strolling up as if he hadn't had so much as a paper cut, taking Malcolm out so she could administer the final blow. She feels almost dizzy at the implication of what he's telling her, almost wants to ask if he's joking, but his dark eyes are dead serious, and he wouldn't make up something like this. "So. . . all this time, when you've said you've had an arrangement to catch your mom. . ."

"The consequence if I didn't was that your safety couldn't be guaranteed." Lucifer clearly hates himself for saying it out loud, but he can't stop now. "As I was told several times. And as Mum was getting stronger and. . . I thought that if I could just get you away from me, if I could convince you to leave, you'd be safe. She wouldn't have any motive to go after you if you were out of my life, and nor would anyone else. So I thought. . . I'd just. . . make it easier."

"Lucifer." Chloe's hand tightens around his, as she feels like a lump of ice has frozen in her stomach. It's hard for her to breathe, to focus, and yet she is conscious of something coming over her, like the sun coming up, like the world changing all at once from what she feared it was to what she never dared to hope it could be. She wants to ask why he didn't tell her, but she knows, the same reason she didn't tell him. "So you thought I'd leave you, and that would be that?"

"Yes." His eyes flicker up to hers again. "As long as you were safe. Then, while I'd still have to live with everything I did, at least it wouldn't include your death, and – "

Chloe doesn't know what comes over her, exactly. Just that it suddenly seems ridiculously, perfectly, comically clear, that she has been waiting far too long and has been in some pretty deep denial herself, and when everything _finally_ makes sense (as much as any story can when it involves the Devil giving up his own life to God in exchange for hers), there is really only one thing to do. She steps toward him, raises herself on tiptoes, and kisses him on the lips.

Lucifer almost expires of shock on the spot. His hand raises feebly, as if either trying to gently push her off or alert her to the embarrassing fact that her mouth has accidentally collided into his and he's sure she wants to sort that out. It instead hovers just over her back, then presses flat, as she pulls his head down to her level and his other arm comes around her waist, hoisting her up. It's absurdly and poignantly plain that he has no idea how to kiss like this, with someone you actually like, gentle and slow, rather than just the requisite brief and steamy makeout en route to tumbling another attractive stranger into bed. He's such an amateur at it, in fact, that it's almost adorable, as Chloe pulls back and looks up at him, still blinking like a concussed ox. "Detec. . ." He reaches a hand up to touch his mouth. "Detective, I. . ."

"Thank you." She grips the lapels of his suit jacket. "Thank you. For telling me, and. . . and saving me. And I. . . I know we both have our issues, but I want us to be partners, okay? I want us to be together. Don't ever doubt that. At work, and. . ." She hesitates. "If you're going to flip out on me again, forget I ever said this, but. . . I wouldn't mind if it was. . . more than that."

"Well, you did officially sign the divorce papers with Detective Dou – Dan," Lucifer mutters faintly, as if he's sure this can't possibly be happening. "Free woman and all that. But I can't work out how on earth, after just ridding yourself of him, you'd ever want to – "

Chloe interrupts this by kissing him again. Lucifer has decidedly gotten more of the hang of it this time, possibly because this one, after everything that's built up between them, after how long they've both waited, after everything that has been there from the start and only gotten stronger with time, is downright explosive. In a few instants more, they end up against the wall, Chloe's knee riding up on his hip, grabbing and grinding, his lips starting to explore down her neck and toward the collar of her T-shirt when there is a loud cough in the doorway. They rip apart like high schoolers caught making out in the hallway by the principal, to see Amenadiel clearly not managing to have averted his eyes in time. "Lucifer," he says, determinedly casual. "I needed to ask you something."

"Oh yes. Of course you needed to ask me something." Lucifer smiles through his teeth, straightening his collar. "Don't take this the wrong way, bro, but I'm going to murder you in your sleep."

Amenadiel dignifiedly elects to ignore this, as Lucifer wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, shoots a quick glance at Chloe, and follows him into the other room. Chloe leans against the wall, breathing hard and feeling heat rushing through her from head to toe. She was, well. She was not expecting that. Didn't plan on it either, but she can't bring herself to want it back. Feels like she's taken a proper breath for the first time in weeks, wants to slap both their past selves and ask what took so damn long. Not that she thinks they'll just jump into a relationship from here, as that's not the way it works with either of them, but they could at least give it a try. She doesn't want it to look as if Lucifer is her cheap rebound guy after the divorce was finalized, but she knows that he's been her guy from the moment they met, and after this, after everything, she doesn't want to go on pretending anymore. She wants him, she wants –

"Chloe?"

Her eyes jerk open. Charlotte is standing across from her, a bit unpleasantly surprisingly, considering she thought Amenadiel and Maze had put Crazy Mama away to await the main event. However, she's still cuffed, and Chloe manages a cool smile. "Excuse me, aren't you supposed to be. . .?"

"I'm sorry." Charlotte glances down. "But I couldn't help but overhear some of that, and, well. . . I know I haven't treated you very well, and if this _is_ how my son is going to make me part with him, I wish it didn't have to be on such bad terms. Can I just. . . ask you something, quickly? Woman to woman, mother to mother?"

That gives Chloe a brief unsettled feeling, as she wasn't aware that Charlotte knew about Trixie, but after a moment, she nods once and consents to step after Charlotte into the study. She maintains a decorous distance, waiting with folded arms; the condemned has the right to a final statement, after all, and this whole situation has been such a clusterfuck that it might be nice if Lucifer could feel as if his life wasn't completely destroyed when it was over. "Well?"

"You care for him, don't you?" Charlotte looks at her levelly. "Very much. My son."

"Lucifer is. . . important to me, yes. I'm still not entirely sure how you're his mother, but you both say you are, so. . ." Chloe shrugs. "That's your business."

"Good," Charlotte says. "That will make what I'm going to ask of you easier. Forget about him."

"I – what?" Chloe tenses, looking over her shoulder at the door. It's shut, and she doesn't remember shutting it. "I'm sorry, but we just had that conversation about how we _didn't_ want to do that. So, obviously, as your opinion isn't going to matter here in another few hours – "

"Is it?" Charlotte seems to find that funny. "Look. We both know that as mothers, we have to make hard choices for our children. Discipline them, not give them everything they want, even if they think it's what they desire most of all. And I'm well aware of how you've treated Lucifer, even outside the fact of you being a human. Never believing him. Never listening to him. _Shooting_ him, even knowing you make him. . . vulnerable. And because he's blinded, he somehow keeps trotting after you and involving himself in your pitiful little problems. I've tried and tried, but I can't get through to him. This is my last chance to do right by him, and I don't intend to waste it."

"I – wait, how did you – the shooting, he _told_ me, he _dared_ me to do it, and that was before either of us knew about my effect on – look, what was I supposed to do, just welcome a crazy man into my life and my cases – " Chloe's flustered, which she doesn't get easily, and babbling, which she also doesn't do easily. "Not that I think he's crazy – well, I do sometimes, but – that's not what I meant. This is our lives, and we're both adults. We make our own choices. That's another part of being a parent. Knowing when to let your kids go."

Charlotte smiles pleasantly, clearly not buying a word of this. She doesn't care what Chloe thinks, any more than she cared that Mr. Richards and the kids were people, and not just toys that she broke and couldn't put back together. "Let's be honest. You don't deserve him."

"Don't _deserve_ him? The last time I checked, you don't get a say on this, or know what we've been through." Chloe is feeling ever more as if she shouldn't have gone off with this woman alone, cuffed or not. "I'm sorry not to grant your last wish and all, but this conversation is over. Sorry." She turns back toward the door. "So I think it's – "

There's a soft click behind her, as she looks around just in time to see Charlotte hold up her wrists, shrug, and snap the heavy chains with no more effort than pulling the tag off a new item of clothing. She lets them fall, clicks her fingers, and the next instant, Chloe is frozen in place, no matter how hard she tries to take a step. She can feel her brain giving the orders, and her limbs trying to respond, but something has gone awry in the normal circuitry. Charlotte turns around, raises both hands, and does something with them as if wriggling her fingers into a tear in the fabric of reality, widening and rending. "I really was hoping you'd say yes," she says, with a disappointed tone in her voice, a mother chastising a child who brought home a C on their report card. "But since you won't see reason, it's up to me to save Lucifer from you after all."

"Ex – " Chloe can't get a word out. A giant iron band is crushing her chest. There's a strange echoing and rushing in the room now, and it's increasing as Charlotte works. Her voice is locked in her throat, as hard as she tries to yell for Lucifer, or Amenadiel, or Maze, or anyone. All she can manage is a tortured whisper. "Y. . . you can't. . ."

"Oh." Charlotte smiles brightly. "Actually, I can. I know I'm going back to hell one way or the other, so why not do it my way? There's plenty more I can accomplish down there than up here, believe me. The human world is so boring and limited. Lucifer would never have stayed so long if he wasn't distracted with you, and now, I'll take care of that. And once he comes after you, he'll remember just what he gave up, and that he shouldn't have. Then we can handle his father."

"You're. . . you're crazy." Chloe still can't get up enough breath to shout. "If he's your son – you can't do that to him, put him between the two of you like that – I know, when you're separated from your kid's father, it can be hard, trust me, but – "

"Look at you. Trying to give me _advice._ It's adorable, really." Charlotte looks genuinely amused. "And you still don't believe us, do you? _If_ he's my son? Of course he's my son. Always the little skeptic. Always hedging your bets. Always closing your eyes to the truth even when it's right in front of you. I think I'm doing you a favor here, you know. I'm sure you'll come up with some perfectly logical explanation for this too. Or maybe, at last, you won't."

She moves her hands again, stretching and widening whatever tear in space-time she has created, as the floor begins to rock, as a strange red light suffuses the shelves and the books and the lamps, reflecting and refracting. She no longer looks very human, is changing, metamorphosing before Chloe's horror-struck eyes. "Charlotte," she gasps. "Charlotte, you can't – "

The woman – not the woman, the demon – looks at her almost pityingly. "Oh, my name isn't Charlotte Richards. That's just what they call this useless flesh sack I borrowed. My name – my _real_ name – is – "

At that moment, Chloe manages to suck in a good breath, and screams, _"LUCIFER!"_

For a horrifying instant, nothing. And then, shouts. Pounding footsteps. Something explodes, something breaks, as she twists away, but not-Charlotte lunges after her, grinning insanely. Gets hold of her wrists, drags her back, as Chloe can feel her flesh bubbling and burning. The demon lifts her without an effort and carries her over to the yawning hellmouth, holding her head over it, eyes burning, even as her flesh continues to shed and melt and distort, as a shadow rises towering above the puny, disfigured remnants of her mortal body, like somebody caught in a terrible explosion. Her voice is a hiss. "I'm _terribly_ sorry, but this is how it has to be. And if I'm going back to hell – if that's what all of this has come to – then my son pays the same price. You're coming with me, little mortal. We go down together. I'll tell Lucifer how the portal just opened up, how I tried to save you but I couldn't, and be there for him in his grief. After all, I do understand how important to him you were. Your sacrifice won't be in vain."

"Lucifer!" Chloe chokes out, clawing for purchase, as small objects start to be sucked into the fiery, roaring abyss. Tears smoke and sizzle on her cheeks. _"Lucifer!"_

Through the tumult, she can just hear him banging madly on the door – irony of ironies, he can't break it down with angelic strength, because she's just on the other side, and hence he's mortal. He's shouting, screaming, desperate; she's never heard him sound like this. "Detective. _Detective!_ Mother! Mother, don't you dare – I swear I'll tear you apart, eternity of torment doesn't begin to cover it – you won't – you'll never – "

"I'll save her, son!" un-Charlotte screams back. "Hold onto me, Chloe, hold on – no, you can't – I've got you – I've got you, you have to – "

Chloe overbalances, fighting with all her might, kicking out and feeling enough of a ribcage still left for her heel to catch a solid blow. The door shudders one more time, then bursts inward in a spray of splinters, and Lucifer charges through. Is assaulted with the sight of her poised on the brink, of his mother who is barely anything that can be put into human words, and amid the smoke and sulfur and the belching din, his eyes lock onto hers. His mouth shapes two words.

 _Chloe! No!_

And then, she falls.

* * *

Lucifer has been driving for half the night.

He has been making a relentless circuit of absolutely every single individual in greater Los Angeles County who could possibly owe him any kind of favor, anyone he has done business with in the past, snorted a line with, slammed a shot (or several), screwed a babe, or otherwise might know anyone anywhere with connections. Someone who has a pawn shop, who is in the antique trade, who collects rare items, who is really into numismatics, who is one of those dreadful New Age "Wiccan" types who puts on a robe and lights candles and gallivants about with the four elements. This being Los Angeles, there are "alternative energy" charlatans on every corner, health food hucksters, tarot card readers, you name it – he's so bloody desperate that he's about to drive up to the Church of bloody Scientology and ask if he can borrow their alien-contacting equipment or whatever it bloody is (even though he is not at all fond of Scientologists in general, like most sane people). Has to be something. Has to be somewhere.

He has loaded up the car with several briefcases containing drugs, money, more drugs, specialty booze, and expensive jewelry, and wherever he stops, he's splashing it out like Naughty Santa Claus. Practically jumping over the furniture to get them to tell him what they really, _really_ want. Has about three open containers in the vehicle, swigging from them at stoplights and all but daring the plebeians to pull him over. He lights up another cigarette as soon as he finishes the previous one, driving with one hand, ruthlessly overtaking anyone going under the speed limit in the fast lane (likewise, there is a special place for them in hell). It's only as he's halfway across a desk in some all-night auction house, unbuttoning his shirt, after having gotten the fat, balding mid-fifties security guard to admit that he is a repressed gay man who has never once been sexually satisfied by his wife, that he abruptly comes to a halt. Not just because the chap isn't much of a looker, but because there is a tiny voice in his head telling him that he can't do this. This isn't helping him find Chloe. And it isn't helping him feel better, either. Just worse.

"I. . ." Lucifer sits up slowly, feeling as if someone has poured cold water over him, as he does up his shirt again. "I'm. . . very sorry, actually. Here." He takes out a roll of cash, licks thumb and forefinger, and hands a few Benjamins to the stunned guard. "Go buy yourself a really pretty rent boy. Upscale, obviously, I don't endorse the cheap stuff. Feel like a new man, I'm sure. Glad we've had this chat. Be yourself, and all that. Ta now. Bye."

With that, Lucifer lets himself out, walks across the empty parking garage to his car, and sits down heavily in the driver's seat. He's starting a nasty headache; he never used to get affected this fast by human booze. It's ass o'clock in the morning, he feels absolute shit, and he wonders vaguely if there's enough pot on hand to roll himself a doobie and make the pain go away, but someone will definitely notice if he lights up here, and he's not in the mood to deal with it. How can she be gone? How, _how?_ It doesn't make sense. It's almost comical. But she is, and now he's left here, flailing and drowning in the shallow end of the pool without her, because he barely remembers how to function by himself. She does the right thing, he does the ridiculous thing, they get results, repeat. It's never unduly taxed him to try to play by the rules, because he knows she'll handle that part, that's her job. But all his wildness rings hollow without her. He does it because he knows she's his counterbalance, will point him where he needs to go. Now he's suddenly left to be the one to identify the right choices, make the right choices, _and_ pull them off, and heaven quite literally knows he can't do that. And then he looks at his phone, and notices that he has seven missed calls. Not from Maze, but from Dan.

" _Dan?"_ he says aloud, dumbfounded, before it strikes him. Of course. Chloe was supposed to go over to his place once they were done with Mum, pick up Trixie, and head home. It is natural that Dan is now wondering where on earth (actually, not anywhere on earth) she is, hasn't gotten an answer from her after multiple attempts, and is now lowering himself to the last thing he wants to do. Lucifer groans, tosses the phone in the passenger seat, ignores it with all his might for forty-three seconds, and then picks it up again. Gritting his teeth, he redials.

It rings once and a half before Dan answers. "Lucifer, is that you? I've been calling all night. Chloe was supposed to be here hours ago. What the hell is going on?"

He laughs, utterly without humor. "I suppose that's just it, isn't it?"

"I really don't have time for your little shtick right now. _Where is she?"_

"Wouldn't believe me if I told you, would you?" Lucifer wedges the phone between shoulder and ear and lights another cigarette. "As if the legitimacy of my existence was dictated by whether or not you humans could wrap your tiny brains around the possibility of there being something, _anything_ larger than you and your stupid little problems. I'm tired of you all not believing in me, when I've never lied to any of you, and I don't need to explain a thing. Suck a tit or a dick, Daniel, whichever one you prefer. Good- _bloody-_ bye and don't – "

"Wait." He can hear Dan consciously choosing to swallow the rudeness, to not blaze back. "Lucifer. Please just tell me what's going on with Chloe. I'm sorry about your existential crisis, we can deal with it later, but Trixie and I, we're. . . we're worried sick."

That catches him like a bullet between the eyes (which he has caught a few before, and even if they can't kill him, it's still not particularly enjoyable). After a long moment he says, "Not really something to be discussed over the phone. Give me your address, I'll. . . be by in a bit."

Dan can hear the seriousness in his voice, and doesn't demur. He gives it.

Twenty minutes later, Lucifer pulls up in a nice suburban neighborhood before an utterly average domicile, parks, and gets out. There's a light on in the window, Dan clearly waiting up for him, and he opens the door before Lucifer has even made it up the walk. As he steps inside, he catches a glimpse of Trixie in her Disney pajamas, sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, as Dan musters up an encouraging smile for her. "Hey, monkey, look, I called Lucifer, just like you suggested. That was really smart of you, wasn't it? Now go to bed, and we'll sort out whatever happened to Mommy, okay? She'll probably be home by morning."

Trixie gets up slowly, sniffling. She pads over to Lucifer, then hugs him tightly, not her usual exuberant clutch, but much more urgently. "I'm really happy you came over," she says into his stomach. "Please fix it. I want Mommy."

"Ah. . ." He puts a hand gingerly on her shoulder, trying to disentangle her without being too obvious about it. It is understandable that the small human is in a fragile state. "Ah, yes, child, of course. Do as your dou – dad says and go to bed, why don't you? With chocolate cake, or, er, whatever flavor you like?"

Trixie gives him a watery smile, lets go, and trudges upstairs, both of the men listening to make sure they hear her room door shut before Dan jerks his head tersely at Lucifer. They go around into the kitchen, where Dan is about to offer him something, then sniffs and frowns. "Jesus, you smell like all-night happy hour at a really dive bar. Have you been drinking and driving?"

"That's not your concern, is it?" Lucifer says, his voice sharp and brittle. "Put aside Detective Espinoza, upstanding officer of the law, for two bloody seconds. I came to talk to Dan. For whatever reason, Chloe was, and remains, fond of you. I have no notion why, but she is."

Dan doesn't answer, although his expression is clear enough that he likewise isn't sure what Chloe sees in Lucifer, but is willing to accept the offer of a peace accord in the name of a larger crisis. At last he says, "Okay," and sits down at the table. "Tell me what's going on."

Lucifer almost can't face the idea, but does his best to boil it down to terms that even a douche's mind can fathom. There is a very terrible silence when he finishes, until Dan says, in a voice which clearly can't decide if Lucifer is jerking him around and has to lay out the words to see if they remotely make any sense associated with this planet, "Chloe was dragged to hell."

"Yes. Keep up."

"By your mother, who's a demon, because of course she is, because you're _actually_ the Devil."

"Bra- _vo,"_ Lucifer says nastily. "Child who needed extra help in elementary school, were you?"

"So all this time, this little thing of yours, it's. . ." Dan fumbles for the words. "It's not just been some act or persona or coping mechanism, and now you've gotten her killed because of it."

" _Careful."_ Lucifer's eyes flash with an ugly light, and Dan visibly flinches. Good. He resists the urge to go full-on Red Skull, but barely. "I told you who I was the first time, and many times thereafter. It's not my fault if you didn't bloody believe me. And Chloe is – she's not dead." Maybe if he says it authoritatively enough, he'll make himself believe it, and he has to, because the alternative is unfathomable. "Stuck in. . . in hell, yes, but not dead."

Dan is still shaking his head. "And I'm supposed to tell Trixie – what, exactly?"

"You're her father. You work it out." Lucifer gets to his feet. Headache or no headache, he needs another drink. "Now I've told you, so if you could do me a favor and pour me a – "

There's an unfriendly silence behind him. Then Dan says, "Malcolm. He has something to do with this, doesn't he? Him and his supposed resurrection from the dead. But it wasn't _supposed,_ was it? It was real. He was down there. And he came back a. . ."

"By the sounds of things, he was no saint beforehand." Lucifer leans on the counter with both hands, fighting an unexpected reel beneath his feet. "He died, he received his proper dues, and then my bloody brother brought him back to life and botched everything up. I've yelled at him about it too, believe me."

"So that entire thing with him, with him getting me to steal the gun, setting him up to whack you, was some kind of demented supernatural family feud with you and your brother and this – " Dan is so angry he almost can't get the words out. "This was _my_ family you messed with! This was my life! You two made me into your little puppet, and destroyed me and Chloe and – "

" _Amenadiel_ made Malcolm into his puppet, Daniel, and thus by extension, you. There's a bloody difference. Don't go blaming me for his sins. I take enough flak as it is." Lucifer wheels around to face him, fists clenching. "Nobody forced you to lie to Chloe all that time! Nobody forced you not to admit that it wasn't you who sent the breakup text, and let her go on thinking that was just how little you cared for her! Nobody forced you to decide that you'd just let her think she was crazy, rather than come clean even when she might have understood it was supposedly to protect her! Don't think you get off responsibility! It isn't what it means at all!"

He's almost shouting, towering dark and terrible against the dim kitchen, as Dan stares back at him without a word and he remembers belatedly that he's probably right underneath Trixie's bedroom and if he keeps up, she will definitely come down and see this. The lights are flickering and sputtering again, as he wrestles himself back from the very hair-edge of losing control. "Apologies," he says, cold and curt. "It's been a bad night."

"Yeah," Dan mutters, half under his breath, his own fists clenching on his knees. It is clearly costing him everything he has not to stand up and take a swing at Lucifer – which Lucifer himself would bloody welcome, give him a chance to pop Dan squarely in the douchey mug as he has been so sorely tempted to do all this time. "So I see."

The tension remains crackling for an unbearable moment longer, until Lucifer finally turns away. He has been trying not to think about the fact that even if they do get Chloe back, she might be like Malcolm. Her kindness and her goodness and her selflessness and her brightness destroyed, sullied with the filth of hell, made into that rapacious, insane, devouring black hole that only wants to consume and consume, nothing but raw nerves and shattered edges. He would die himself, again, sooner than see her that way. No mortal has ever gone down there and stayed unchanged, and even as strong as she is, it will work on her, it will get to her, it will prey and play and weigh on her, and there is absolutely no way to say what will survive and what won't. If that's the case, it would be more merciful for everyone if she just died.

"It should have been me," Lucifer says at last. "I know you're thinking it. You're not wrong. She didn't deserve it. She never did. I tried to get her away from me, I tried everything I could think of to keep her safe, even if I was afraid she'd end up bloody hating me. It didn't work. I'm sorry."

Dan starts to answer, then stops. The silence stretches out. Then he says, barely above a whisper, "Okay. I can understand that."

Lucifer has been braced for a scathing retort (well, this is Dan, more like a somewhat-above-lukewarm retort) and this catches him off guard. As he turns around, their eyes meet, and both of them realize, whether they want to or not, that despite their fraught (to say the least) personal relationship, both of them love Chloe, and both of them have made terrible mistakes trying to shield her from the consequences of their own actions, which have snowballed and grown worse and left her to be the one to suffer for them. Dan flinches again, ever so slightly, and looks down at the table. "You know," he says, after another pause. "I'm not a total idiot. I saw the writing on the wall with you two, pretty early on. And if it's something that _was_ going to happen, I just wanted to know, as weird and unbalanced as you might be, that you would keep her safe. But you didn't, huh? Guess that makes two of us after all."

Lucifer is about to indignantly rejoin that this isn't his fault, it's Amenadiel's, as he was explaining to his brother in great detail and with the assistance of a fist earlier, but the words die a cold and shriveled death on his tongue. He feels, for the first time in his life, about two inches tall. Shame. Guilt. Pain. As much as he wants to spin it or explain it away, as much as he wants to lash out, he _has_ failed Chloe, and she's the one bearing the brunt of it right now. "Well then." His voice is caught and rusty in his throat. "Suppose we do have that in common after all."

"Yeah." Dan doesn't sound triumphant, gloating, doesn't appear to want to rub it in his face. After a moment, Lucifer turns, goes back to the table, and sits down across from him. The silence remains, until Dan says, not as a question, "You're going after her, aren't you."

"If I can find a way – and I won't stop until I do – then yes, I am." Lucifer looks down at his hands. "I don't know how just yet, but I'm not giving up."

Dan nods, as if to say that he expected that. Then he says, utterly astonishingly, "Well, if so, then. . . I'll come with you."

"Come with me? Into hell?" Lucifer can't help but be impressed by this offer, even if it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. "You have no idea what you're signing yourself up for, Daniel, and frankly, I wouldn't have time to babysit you. Not to mention, it would be criminally bloody irresponsible of me if I ended up getting both of Trixie's parents stuck down there, not least because then I'd have to adopt her, and we all know that would go terribly. Stay here and take care of her. I'm sure that's what Chloe would want."

"You're. . ." Dan looks as if he can't believe these words are about to come out of his mouth, but as they are all discovering in various and painful ways, there is a first time for everything. "Yeah. You're right. But surely you'll take that ninja bartender of yours or something, won't you? Not just throwing caution to the wind and charging down there by yourself?

"No," Lucifer lies. "Of course not."

Dan's expression flickers, as if he's not sure whether to believe this. After all, his own instinct was to go it alone and fix it single-handed, rather than asking anyone else for help, even while the proverbial shit got deeper and deeper. Finally he says, "You know, Lucifer, you're an immature, pompous, self-absorbed, totally inappropriate jackass, but I don't think you're completely a terrible person, no matter how much you pretend to be. Maybe you could stand to let that side of you out more often."

"I'm not sure if that was a compliment disguised as an insult or an insult disguised as a compliment, but likewise, while you are a wooden, patronizing, insufferable, vastly boring Douche von Douchelord, you're certainly not the worst man I've ever met, and you can take it from the Devil, I have some authority on the subject." Lucifer pauses, then gets to his feet. "Tell Trixie that I'm handling it. Tell her that her mother is. . ." He coughs. Something feels oddly stuck in his throat. "Tell her that her mother is perfectly fine, and I'll have her home soon."

"And?" Dan looks up at him. "Is she? Will you?"

"It's part of being a parent, isn't it?" Lucifer's voice is soft. "A little white lie now and again?"

For a long moment, Dan says nothing. Then he nods.

* * *

The last thing (well, there may have been others, but they aren't coming to mind just now) that Chloe ever expected was to be a celebrity in hell. Which is what, if she's not mistaken, she appears to be now, and she isn't in the least sure that that's a good thing. The people who have the literally warmest welcome down here are the ones who have led the worst lives up above, and maybe she's not Mother Teresa or anything, but she likes to think she's been somewhat decent. Not that there is any time to point this out, or that she'd know how, or really to do anything except allow herself to be led by the front-desk soul down a hallway to some kind of ballroom at the back. It is crowded with more of them, some more identifiable than others – those ones must have not been here as long, but all of them make a communal _"oooh"_ sound when she walks in. It's more than a bit creepy, like they're aliens who have just marched off the flying saucer and asked to be taken to your leader, and mistook her for the main attraction instead. She remains rooted in place as they all look up at her with those blank faces. What the hell is she supposed to do, literally? Give a speech? Teach them the electric boogaloo?

"Uh," she says faintly, looking around. "Is Lucifer Morningstar here?"

"Lucifer?" One of the souls turns toward her. "They say he hasn't been here in ages."

"Ages," another one agrees. Are they actually speaking English, which seems unlikely, or is that just how she's hearing it? "You came from him, didn't you?"

"I. . . yeah. Sort of. It's a long story. But. . . who are _you?"_

"They are the souls who have arrived since he left." Thank you, front desk minion, for actually saying something useful. It appears to be a first. "There are more. You saw them entering. It has gotten most unclear, which ones belong here and which do not. Without him, there is less. . . clarity. That is why you are here, my lady, is it not? To sort them out?"

"What?" Chloe wishes she had a better response, but she's still completely baffled. "You think Lucifer sent me as his proxy to fix his staffing problems, or his. . ." She waves a hand at the waiting souls, who have crowded nearer. For a place that is supposed to be abandoning all of it, ye who enter here, they seem almost. . . hopeful. As if even if they're about to get a sentence of damnation, at least they will know their fate, rather than being stuck permanently between. "To what, clear out his in-tray?"

"Didn't he?"

She opens her mouth to say that no, she is not here to judge all the potentially bad people who have kicked the bucket since Lucifer quit his day job, and decide whether or not they merit eternal hellfire. She considers asking how they know that she knows Lucifer, then remembers. Oh, right. The deal. If the Devil Himself considers her life important enough to bargain with God, the news must have trickled down the celestial grapevine somehow. If that's the reason he didn't come back, after all, they must know why. They have just stayed in that line forever, waiting but never processed, because the CEO has shut down the office. Gone up to Los Angeles to run a fancy nightclub and solve crimes with her, among other exotic occupations. Totally inexplicably, she feels a twinge of resentment at him for it. Look what he's stuck her with, down here. Not that he could have known his mother was going to go full Norma Bates on her, but. . . didn't he even care? She couldn't have just ducked out of her responsibilities at the precinct like that, no matter how badly she wanted a vacation. Not that Responsibility is Lucifer Morningstar's middle name (actually, she's fairly sure that it's Melodrama) but still.

"What the hell," she says wearily, wondering if she's going to have to stop saying that. "It's not like I have anything better to do. Can I at least get some sleep first, though?"

The front-desk soul (she really has to learn its name) hurries to agree, recognizing that she is of course still human (something about that _still_ disturbs her, but not any more than the rest of this godforsaken ridiculous situation) and insists that she won't stay at the Hotel California tonight, that she can have Lucifer's own home. It's clear that they think she's pretty much his wife, which is, well, weird, but if all she knew about her was that this is the woman the Devil nearly returned to God for, she might draw that conclusion too. Some old human impulse tells her she can't just waltz into someone's house and stay there while they're not home, but she's already realizing that she's going to have to stop acting as if any of this is bound to play by any ordinary rules whatsoever. Frankly, she'd rather stay at Lucifer's place, even if he's not there, than at the Overlook Hotel. That at least might be remotely familiar, as well as lessening her chances of getting axe-murdered by some rogue soul who knows exactly what they have done and what fate they merit, and doesn't intend to let her stay around long enough to dish it out.

That is how, whatever length of time later, Chloe finds herself in an expansive, luxurious apartment that isn't much different, to all appearances, from Lucifer's penthouse back home. Everything is done in shades of black, and her footsteps echo endlessly when she walks, and none of the furniture looks remotely comfortable, all stiff corners and sharp angles. The lighting is low and red, and she can't find where exactly it comes from, or if it shuts off at night, or if it's just part of the general hellish ambiance. It's all glass and steel and mirrors, utterly cold and impersonal, looking out over the strange dark city beyond. Is that why he came to L.A., because it was familiar? Shouldn't the Devil go to Las Vegas or something? Or is it possible that none of it actually looks like this, that she sees hell as Los Angeles because that's where _she's_ from, that she sees Lucifer's house as resembling the one she knows already for the same reason? Maybe this is really some gloomy cavern with rivers of blood and the distant howling of the damned and horned demons with pitchforks. In which case, creepy as it is, she prefers it this way.

She finds the kitchen, which is huge and eerily clean and empty, and wonders if she can imagine up some dinner, since it seems to be her perceptions which are driving this whole thing. True, the caveat about underworld food might still apply, but she's so hungry that it feels as if her entire body is turning inside out, and she's going to have to risk it. Feeling like a kid playing magic-trick games, she closes her eyes, stands by the fridge, and thinks very hard about what it would look like if it was filled with regular human food. Maybe a pizza, because frankly, a pizza sounds really good right now. Is she supposed to say Alakazam? Abracadabra? Would that help?

It takes her a few tries, but on the third, she feels something shift, and she opens her eyes and there it all is. She lets out a triumphant whoop, pumping the air; sure, it's in literal hell, but it's definitely the coolest thing she's ever done, and after she has put the pizza in the oven to bake, she wanders around and starts trying it with the apartment. Keeps it looking like Lucifer's place in L.A., because that's comforting, but she manages to twiddle with the lighting, get it less electric-dance-hall-of-the-dead and more homey, make the furniture possible to sit on, and some curtains for the endless windows. It gets easier as she goes, until she's managed to make it as comfortable and familiar as she can, the pizza smells heavenly (or, um, hellish?) and she's feeling almost restored. Yes, she's somehow signed herself up for a few days of sorting out the backlog of dead possible-baddies, but that's not as bad as it could be.

Chloe sits down and eats the pizza, wonders if she has to wash up by hand or can just think the dishes back to clean, and when she succeeds, is even more pleased with herself. Catches herself thinking she really could get used to this, when everything is as easy as a little concentration and willpower and knowing what you want, and with that, realizes exactly why Lucifer is the way he is, expecting the world to literally bend over backwards and conform itself to his every whim and desire. If she lived like this for a few weeks, never mind a few millennia, it could become second nature pretty damn easily.

She shakes her head, telling herself not to abuse it. She's still plenty able to do things the old-fashioned way, and she can just save the power for special occasions. She finds the bathroom and takes a long hot shower, dries off, and thinks that hell isn't really that bad. At least, not for her. Maybe being the Devil's boo (oh god, she is not the Devil's _boo)_ has its perks.

Chloe pads into the master bedroom, shuts the curtains, and climbs into Lucifer's bed. It has black silk sheets and a thick comforter that weighs her down delightfully, and she stretches her arms and legs out to either side, barely feeling bad about enjoying it. She's sure he won't begrudge her the use, though he'll doubtless have a few smart remarks about how it would be much better if he was sharing it with her. But she's clean and comfortable and well-fed, and when she buries her nose into the pillows, they smell, ever so faintly, like him.

She closes her eyes, and falls asleep.


	3. Canto III

**Canto III**

Chloe wakes the next – well, _morning_ is definitely not the right word, but if she keeps trying to reimagine every single basic established human concept of space and time, she's going to go crazy even faster, and it's lighter than it was, so morning it is. Her torn and dirty T-shirt, jacket, and jeans are still piled where she left them – no demon butlers doing the housekeeping during the night, apparently – and she doesn't want to show up to the first day of her new job dressed like a shlub. So after another long shower (she's guessing they never have to worry about running out of hot water down here) she steps into the huge walk-in closet and has a look. But of course, the only options are Lucifer's suits, done in varying degrees of black, here and there with some red for emphasis. As they are also several sizes too large for her, clearly this is not going to work, and she stands in front of the mirror, struggling to conjure up a full outfit; it is harder than food and redecorating, not least because she has absolutely no wish to play out the classic nightmare of standing up in front of a crowd and realizing you have no pants on. That would certainly make a memorable first impression, but not one she's aiming for.

At last, however, she comes up with a classy little black dress that wouldn't look out of place at an upscale cocktail party back home, though with a hemline that hits the knee; she's not prancing in there like the Sexy Vampire Queen of Planet Sanguina (iconic role of Penelope Decker in _Bloodsuckers From Outer Space_ and its three equally low-budget sequels). She adds pantyhose and heels, then does her makeup, feeling distinctly out of place; it's not that she minds dressing up and looking nice, but she almost never does, and this is very much a conscious costume, a role, an image to protect her while she's working out the lay of the land. If she looks impressive and formidable, like someone you don't want to mess with, there's less chance of them calling her bluff (but can you even call it a bluff when they were the ones who decided she was supposed to do this?) On that note, feeling stupid but deciding why not, she adds an elaborate ruby choker and earrings, lets her hair down, and finishes off with a little iron crown. Very Charlize Theron Evil Queen, but Chloe can't help but enjoy the effect. She looks beautiful, dark, dangerous, and alluring, nobody is going to laugh at her or wonder if they sent the janitor, and her brief and failed acting career has to be good for _something._ There is no way she can tell her mom about this, of course, but it is (well, for now) kind of fun.

Chloe pulls on a stylishly cuffed black jacket, belts it, tucks a scarf around her neck in case hell is still falling down on its chief duty to be hot, and heads out the door. She briefly thinks she should lock it, but it's not as if anyone is going to go breaking into the Devil's den, and if they do, well, she'll deal with it later. Her heels clack as she walks down the driveway, wondering if there is an Uber service for the damned (if you ask some people, that's just Uber in usual operation) but her question is answered in a moment as an elegant black Rolls-Royce Phantom appears at the end of the street and rolls up to her. The rear door opens. "My lady?"

Nice. Chloe ducks onto the cavernous leather back seat, where the front-desk soul and two more just like it are awaiting her on the opposite one. They look a little more identifiable this morning, like striking older women, and that tickles something in the back of her head. "Are you three by any chance the Morrigan? The sisters, the fates?"

They glance at each other. "Badb," says the first one.

"Macha," says the second.

"Nemain," says the third.

"Morrigan," they chorus in unison.

"So, yes?" See, she's almost getting the hang of this. Not that she expected the Morrigan to be running a derelict budget hotel in the back districts of the damned, but standards have definitely slipped around here, and it would explain how they know what's going on and what she's supposed to be doing, as well as why they're in charge of queuing up the new arrivals until someone arrives to process them. A far cry from the days when they used to swoop around chaotic battlefields as harbingers of death and mighty goddesses of war and woe, but then, nobody probably saw Lucifer Morningstar nearly getting killed by a middle-aged housewife with a poker coming either (no, Chloe is _never_ going to let him forget that). "And you don't have to do the creepy speak-in-one-voice thing either. I get it."

"As you command, my lady," they say. All together. Clearly this is going to take some work.

It's presumably not long until they arrive at the vast steel warehouse she passed yesterday, with its still-endless line of huddled souls waiting to be booked in, and Chloe feels a distinct pang of foreboding. This might take literally eternity to clear out, and she doesn't know how much time has passed in the real world, or how long it's going to take Lucifer to get to her. She has absolutely no doubt that he's turning over every rock and barking up every tree, but short of finding someone else who makes him mortal and asking them to shoot him, there isn't a readily apparent way for him to arrive here in a hurry. That idea turns her stomach. No, absolutely not. He'll come up with something else. As long as Dan and Trixie –

Oh god. Dan and Trixie. She hasn't thought of them once since the attempt to make her think that Trixie was trapped here too. Been too busy with enjoying her newfound power and slumming it in Lucifer's swanky digs. They must be going absolutely crazy with worry – has Lucifer told them what's going on? It's not like he and Dan have the best relationship. She doesn't think Lucifer would lie to them, but it's also not as if this is a conversation anyone would be rushing to have, especially him. So what? Do they think she's dead? Planning her funeral?

"My lady?"

"I – yeah, I'm coming." Chloe shakes her head and gets out of the car. It's another murky, low, cold, grey day, the kind that would have all of Los Angeles contemplating suicide if they had to endure more than about three in a row (there are people who don't deal with bad weather well, and then there are Californians) and she supposes that the whole point of this place is that there aren't any nice days. Still, if she's going to be here for long, that will be a pain, and maybe the acting executive director of Hell has some prerogative over its weather settings. Something to explore later, at any rate.

She follows the Morrigan inside the warehouse, very industrial-steel and minimalist, lit with harsh fluorescents like the world's most unpleasant cubicle-farm office complex, endless acres of bland carpet and a faint whiff of astringent cleaning chemicals, the roped-off line switching back and forth and out of sight. A few of the souls glance up as Chloe passes by, a VIP being hustled in by her security detail, but most have the good sense to keep their heads down. The despair is palpable, thick and noxious, weighing on her shoulders almost physically. Nobody wants to be here, nobody thinks they deserve to be here, everyone is terrified and confused as to how they did end up here, and there is no one around to answer their questions or do anything except order them to wait. Forever, not figuratively.

They reach the door at the front of the warehouse, the Morrigan unlock it, and show Chloe inside. It looks like a fancy CEO kind of place, padded leather swivel chair and mahogany desk, green banker's lamp and handsomely paneled filing cabinets. It also has a stale, dusty, shut-up air, as nobody has been here for at least five years (not counting whatever fill-in stints Amenadiel might have done). The brass nameplate says _L. Morningstar,_ but one of the Morrigan whisks it off and replaces it with a new one. _C. Decker._

Chloe looks at it, can't deny she kind of likes it, and takes a seat behind the desk. Crosses her ankles with a snap, feeling as if she's just had a major promotion at the precinct, has her own turf now, a corner office with a door that shuts. She sure would like to see the faces of the rest of the guys now. Nobody questioning her judgment, nobody laughing at her or not taking her seriously, nobody writing her off because she's pretty and blonde and female. Yes, this is what she wants, this is what she's been struggling for her whole life, and she nods magisterially at the Morrigan. "Right. Let's get this party started."

The process appears, at least outwardly, to be simple enough. The damned soul comes in, they have a silver coin (a Pentecostal coin, according to her loyal sidekicks) and they hand it to her. This brings up a flash-view of their life and behavior, and highlights the parts that were responsible for sending them here. For the first several dozen, or hundred, or whatever it is, it's pretty clear that yes, they deserve it: they're scumbags, they cheated their business partners, or embezzled money from starving kids, or they beat their spouse, or they were just one of those people who relentlessly dedicated themselves to making everyone else miserable however they possibly could. Chloe can't deny that there is a deep, visceral satisfaction in being the one able to tell the jerkoffs of the world where they can eternally stick it. Everyone longs to know that that one total asshole is going to get what's coming to them, and now she can dish it out on their behalf. It's not much different from her usual job: putting the pieces together, working out who's guilty and who's innocent, what unforgivable thing they did and why, and how they deserve to be punished. She's used to doing it with living people on behalf of the dead ones, but it transfers rather well into just doing it directly with the dead ones. This isn't hard at all.

After she has made each judgment, she hands the soul's Pentecostal coin to one of the Morrigan, who vaporizes it, while the second one brands them with a pentagram and the third marches them through the door behind the desk, which presumably leads down to the factory floor to get started on their personalized perpetual torment. There is certainly distant anguished screaming coming through every time it's opened – which, Chloe has to admit, isn't as enjoyable as you might think. Sure, it's terrible people who have earned their fate with their own choices, but hearing anyone in that much pain is only pleasurable to total sociopaths. Really. Does it have to be forever? Why not just give them a sentence equal to the number of years they fucked up, then call it square and send them to greener pastures?

Further complicating is the fact that as they get further into the line, there are cases which are not nearly as clear-cut. Yes, the person might have done some pretty bad things, but they were in a bad situation, their hand was forced, they tried to make up for it, they never shook the guilt over it, they started out in a shitty family life. It doesn't seem fair to just slam the damnation gavel on their heads, and Chloe discovers that a second door has appeared behind the desk: she can choose to send these people to Purgatory instead. In these cases, they keep their Pentecostal coin instead of the Morrigan destroying it, and use it to walk through. Since she's discovered she has this option, however, she starts erring on the side of using it, until she becomes aware that the Morrigan look less than pleased. "Are you planning to spare them all, my lady?"

"Isn't it my job to sort out if they deserve hellfire or not?" Chloe looks back at them challengingly. "What, do you have a Damned Souls of the Month quota you're not meeting?"

"You do not judge by your own rules. You judge by His rules."

No need to ask who He is. Chloe feels a faint prickle of resentment, suddenly understanding all of Lucifer's railing against his father, forcing him into a thankless job by no volition of his own, having to apply a stern and unbending interpretation of some outdated moralistic creed to fallible human beings who – although some of them are genuinely reprehensible – would probably choose to do better if they just hadn't run out of time first. She distracts herself with the good feeling of bringing down the totally irredeemable ones, who display no scrap of remorse even as their lowlight reel is playing in front of her eyes. But nonetheless, the percentage of humanity which is truly, deeply bad to the bone is small. A good thing, perhaps, but unsettling now.

Chloe is just about to ask if she can have a lunch break when the next soul enters, she looks up, and realizes with a sickening flip of her stomach that she recognizes this person. It's a girl she used to know in middle school, who bullied her mercilessly for – well, playground bullies aren't exactly discriminating in their targets, but it was mostly because of her mom's movies and Chloe supposedly thinking she was better than everyone. Melissa Powell, that was – is – her name. She's standing there looking crumpled and pale and smaller than Chloe remembers her, even as she looks up – and recognizes Chloe as well. Her mouth opens and shuts without a sound. Chloe can't entirely blame her, even as she wonders how people would behave if they knew there was a chance that someone they mistreated could end up being the one reviewing their CV in hell one day. Finally Melissa says faintly, "Oh my God. . . Chloe. . . Chloe Decker?"

"Good to see you remember me." Chloe smiles tightly. She almost doesn't want to take the Pentecostal coin, doesn't want the flash on this one, supposes this is the downside of having a human do this job, with a past in the mortal world that could influence their judgment. She's about to say it's a long story, but remembers that she doesn't have an obligation to explain herself. She genuinely has no idea what to do. Melissa made her life figurative hell for most of seventh and eighth grade, to the point where she was throwing up and losing weight over the idea of having to go to school every day, and only stopped when her mother threatened to sue the entire school board – the one time Penelope actually stepped up and acted like the parent and not the child. She had name recognition, could have taken the case to the press – though that would probably just have resulted in more paparazzi attention and harassment – and Chloe started high school a few months later anyway. So what does she do now? Forgive Melissa and send her to Purgatory, or just give in to her first, strong impulse, and make her pay?

She takes the coin, grits her teeth, and endures the flash.

"Chloe," Melissa says again, white-faced, when she opens her eyes. "Chloe, I am so sorry, I am _so_ sorry. You – you saw it, probably, but my parents were getting divorced and my dad drank a lot and hit my brother in front of me and I was jealous – I was so jealous, I thought your life must be perfect since your mom was famous – I can't make up for it now, but please, please, please, don't send me down there, please don't. With the car accident – I was drunk, I know, I'm sorry, but the other driver didn't die, they're just crippled, so please don't – "

"Just crippled?" Chloe looks up at her coolly. "You drank and drove and got into an accident, you died and came here but the other person didn't, they just have to live limited and in pain for the rest of their life, so that's fair? You bullied me for two _years._ I'm sorry your home life sucked, but at some point, that doesn't become an excuse. It felt like absolutely forever to me, and I thought it was never, ever going to end. You know what? Maybe you deserve to know exactly what that's like." She turns to the Morrigan, tosses them the coin. "Door number one."

"No!" Melissa screams, even as it goes up in smoke, the second one advances with the brand, and the door swings open. "No, Chloe! Please – please! I want to make it up to you, I want – "

"Too late." Chloe doesn't blink. "Sorry."

Melissa is still screaming and pleading as she goes through the door and there is a blast of flame on the far side. Chloe stares, still rattled and not even enjoying that as much as she thought. She tries to think what she would have told Trixie to do in that situation, as she knows Trixie has likewise dealt with school bullies. Probably would have put on her responsible parent hat and counseled her to move past it and be the bigger person, as personally painful as it might have been. Always easier to tell other people to do the right thing than to do it yourself, and yet. . . for that moment she's twelve years old again, and she's hiding under her comforter because she doesn't want to go to school, and now she has just avenged that awkward preteen girl, she's justified, she's free – a slow smile starts to spread across her face, and –

"Decker?"

All at once, her savage glee crystallizes to ash, and she tastes something bad in her mouth, an icy fist clutching hold of her chest. She turns slowly, so slowly, as if through mud, to see the next entrant to the office, leaning against the door and grinning obscenely. It widens as he takes her in. "Wow, you got a makeover. Lookin' hot. Get it? Like hell? Hot? But I still know just who you are, girlie. Can't say I was expecting it, but this is gonna be _fun."_

"Oh?" Chloe manages. "I think you're forgetting something, aren't you?"

"Am I?" Malcolm Graham saunters up before the desk and makes a show of patting himself down, before shrugging and holding out his empty hand. "No Pentecostal coin. Guess my case is special, since Samuel Jackson brought me back to life once already. So I'm here, but you can't send me to the flames. Just get to hang around and work together like old times, huh?"

"Get him – get him out of here." Chloe swivels on the Morrigan. "Now, he's – "

They appear ever so slightly uncertain. "Give us the coin."

"Like I said. Don't have one." Malcolm shrugs again. "You looking for an assistant? I make a great assistant, and I like you, you know. Except for that one time you killed me. That wasn't so good. Plus, you aren't the only ballgame in town, Decker. Didn't just fall down here by yourself, now did you? You think Mommy Dearest is in the market for a henchman?"

Chloe stands up fast enough to knock the chair back, about to try physically wrestling him through Door #1 herself, but he's clearly waiting for it, and he's been roaming unconstrained around hell long enough to be a lot stronger than he used to be, a lesser demon rather than entirely human. She might be able to get him in, but she might go over as well, and that's no small risk to run. Instead she's reduced to spitting, "When Lucifer gets down here, you are going to wish you _never – "_

"Lucifer? Lucifer's coming? Oh right. After you. Bet he is." Malcolm doesn't appear fazed by this at all. Instead, his grin gets even crazier. "Pssh! You think I'm scared of _Lucifer?_ I shot that guy once, I'm more n' happy to do it again. And if you're down here, he'll be human, won't he? Man, oh man, this is so delicious, I almost can't deal. Can't deal! I get the chance to throw both of you into that big ol' lake of brimstone, maybe I'll take over running the place instead. That would be fun, wouldn't it? Mama Morningstar can have her war against the big guy, and I'll just hang out down here. Chucking everyone into the fire. Unless, of course, you wanna hire me?"

"I am going to _destroy_ you." Chloe remains standing, face pale as ice, fists clenched. Something invisible passes through the office, a tremor or a shock wave, rattling the filing cabinets and the handles of the doors. "Just jump in right now and spare yourself the embarrassment."

"And why would I do that?" Malcolm slings his thumbs through his belt loops and raises an eyebrow at her. "Huh? I beat you at Palmetto, you know. Okay, yeah, I got shot, but Dan ain't here this time, is he? I was the hero and the martyr and you took the fall. Everyone ended up hating your guts. Sure, you were right, technically speaking. But it ended up meaning dick-all. I still destroyed your life. Wanna guess what I could do with all this – " he waves a hand at their surroundings – "to work with? Especially with one bad mama on my side?"

Chloe wants to fire back, but she's momentarily at a loss for words. She almost forgot that Charlotte is still running around down here somewhere too, and probably is not peaceably inclined to just sit back and let Chloe take over the family business. Putting her and Malcolm together is about the worst outcome imaginable, but there is absolutely no way on earth (or under it) that Chloe is going to hire him and let him hang around merely in the name of forestalling that literally diabolical collaboration. Charlotte would probably just squash Malcolm like a bug anyway, wouldn't she? Let him go hat in hand to the Mother of Demons and see how that works out for him. He killed Lucifer once, even if it didn't stick, and still hates his guts, it's not like Lucifer's mother is suddenly going to see him as a valuable addition to her apocalypse team – despite her danger and manipulation and general chaos-causing habits, she does seem to love her son, in her twisted way. But if she's so eager to get revenge on her ex, as well as twist the knife in Chloe's back, as to accept Malcolm as her useful flunkey, that is a terribly risky bluff to run. After all, Malcolm is right. He killed Lucifer, he destroyed Chloe's life. He's now an actual demon. He isn't someone to underestimate by himself, let alone with Charlotte/Lilith.

"Guess we'll see how that goes for you, won't we?" Chloe says at last. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm in charge right now. So I wouldn't advise – "

"Yeah." Malcolm shrugs. "For the time being. I hope that's special for you, Chloe, I really do. Because when your boyfriend gets here, it ain't gonna be half so fun anymore. So enjoy it while you can, since your number is about to be _up._ Eternally."

He waits to see if she has an answer. When she doesn't, he shrugs, pulls an apple out of his jacket pocket, and takes a big bite. Tips her a mocking salute, and walks out.

* * *

It is dawn by the time Lucifer finishes his canvass of Los Angeles (as well as a considerable fraction of its booze supply) and is forced to find somewhere to repair for rest and recovery. He doesn't want to go back to Lux, as he's still trying to stay well away from Amenadiel and Maze, and he's certainly not in the bloody mood to explain what he's been doing all night. He doesn't want or need their help, and he's certainly not forgiving Amenadiel any time this millennium. If he'd just left bloody well enough alone. . . him and Dad and their self-righteous crusade to drag him back. . . everything they've done along the way just because they can't stand Lucifer thumbing their stupid little plan in the eye. . . thought he was going to be friends with his brother again, but he should know better by now, not after all these years, after everything. . . they're done and dusted and he is facing this by himself, just as always. . .

The obvious answer comes to him after a few minutes of sitting in his car somewhere on the skeezy section of Sepulveda Boulevard, which in the normal course of things is not really a place one wants to be by oneself, and especially not with an arseload of drugs, money, jewelry, and alcohol locked up in the boot. Lucifer, however, has been praying that some opportunistic mugger will come along and try something stupid with the lone guy in the fancy convertible, as he would dearly love the opportunity to smash their faces into the cement. But the petty criminals of Los Angeles appear to be falling down on the job today, which is dismaying when they're normally so good about it, and he sighs, starts the engine, and pulls out.

It's fully light by the time he turns into her driveway, parks, gets out, and strides to the door. He is unable to repress a ludicrous hope that Chloe will be inside, making breakfast and possibly just out of the shower (a smile touches his lips at the thought of another towel-dropping incident) and doubtless with something snappy to say to him for bursting in on her. Indeed, the illusion is so strong that he knocks briskly and waits for her to answer. "Detective. Detective, it's been fun, but you can come out now. We'll settle it later, and you've given everyone quite a scare, but it's just me, my dear. Make a bit of brekkie and have a chat?"

Nothing. No one. She hasn't just been hiding all night for some unfathomable reason, or just because this was all a bad dream. She really is gone.

Lucifer sucks in a breath and slams the door open, as if it is personally responsible for his misfortune, and strides inside. Of course she isn't here, of course she _bloody_ isn't here. He rocks back and forth, then whirls around and launches the vase of half-dead flowers at the wall with a roar of frustration. He's been chasing his bloody tail in circles all night, and he still has barely a ghost of a notion what to do next. Maze is right. He's gotten too damn soft, too weak, begging the mortals for assistance when he should have been tearing through them. They want to blame him for being a monster, perhaps he might as well fulfill their sordid worst expectations – _that's what you're best at, isn't it? –_ and just –

No. Bloody hell, no, he can't go on a senseless killing spree, after working this long clearing up the other end of them. Chloe would be disappointed in him. He may suck an arse at recognizing the right choice and course of action in this goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation, but even he knows it's not "go postal and murder everybody in sight." Think, Lucifer. You're a clever lad. _Think._

It's not working. He stands on the spot a moment longer, then strides to the refrigerator and begins angrily making breakfast, hoping food will help. But even one of his gourmet omelets doesn't make him feel much better, and he has still had no scintillating flash of genius. Maybe if he just killed one person. Someone small and insignificant and annoying. That YouTube prankster who thinks it's funny to assault women on the red carpet, he could kill him. Solve a public nuisance and vent some frustration, two-for-one special. Or –

And then there's a knock on the front door, and his heart just about stops.

He whirls around, crosses the kitchen in one step, and jerks the door open. "Detective? Detective, bloody hell, you scared the life out of me, never do that again! Can we also agree that it was very poor form to – Detective?"

"Hi, Lucifer," a voice says, somewhere around his waist. "Are we going to find Mommy now?"

He just about has a heart attack. Looks up, side to side, and nearly every direction before finally down, thus to behold Beatrice Espinoza in her pink jean jacket and sneakers, hair in perky pigtails and Dora the Explorer backpack hitched firmly into place. He clutches a hand to his chest and just about says a word that one should not utter in front of children (ever the responsible steward of innocence, that's him). "What the _me_ are you _doing_ here? You're supposed to be at school, or – wherever they keep you shut up all day! Get! Go on, get!"

Trixie crosses her arms and does her best grownup glare. "I heard you talking to Daddy," she says. "I know you have to go find Mommy. I'm coming too."

"You are not coming anywhere, especially not where I am headed. And before you get me into even more trouble than I already am, kindly hasten your undersized posterior off to – "

"I'm _coming."_ Trixie holds up her phone. "Otherwise I'm calling Amena – Amenadid."

That screeches him to a halt. Malevolent little minx. "You are not calling Amenadiel."

"Am so."

"Are not!"

"Am so!"

"Are not!"

"AM SO!"

"ARE NOT!" Lucifer lunges to grab the phone, but she spins out of the way. Bloody hell. Blackmailed by an eight-year-old. As if this could possibly get any worse. "Fine," he snarls. "Have any bright ideas, do you?"

"Uh-huh. But you don't want me to tell you, so I'm not gonna." Trixie glares at him, but her lip is trembling. Fucking hell, he is making a spectacle. She's not responsible for her mother's disappearance, and she is the absolute last person who deserves to have all his pent-up rage and fear dumped on her. "I thought you said you were fixing it!"

"I am fixing it." Lucifer considers that statement. "I'm working on fixing it."

"So she really went. . ." Trixie pauses. "She really went to _hell?"_

"You're taking this rather well." Lucifer eyes her narrowly. "Not weeks' worth of a run-around to get through before you finally come around to admitting I am who I say?"

"Nope." Trixie shrugs. "You're the Devil. I know that. Grownups are silly about things like this, but kids know better. And I had an idea. But you don't wanna hear it."

"I – yes. Fine. Yes, I want to hear it." Lucifer rumples a hand over his face, swearing under his breath. "Your father thinks you're at school, I take it?"

"Uh-huh," Trixie says again. "So? Are we working together or not?"

He opens and then shuts his mouth. Despite himself, he can't help but be impressed by this smart, tough little human – like her mum, this one – and God knows (yes, he probably does, miserable git) that he isn't exactly starved for choice right now. It's strangely liberating to have a child, not yet inculcated in the adult habits of skepticism and denial and disbelief, take him at face value, and hey, pissing off Dan might be an enjoyable extra benefit. "Tell me your idea."

"Okay. So. Last Halloween, I watched a scary movie. There was a girl and she was possessed by a demon and it was really creepy. But they got a priest and he sorcised her, and that sent the demon back to hell." Trixie looks up at him. "Do you think that would work on you?"

Lucifer opens his mouth for the second time and fails to shut it, mainly because he feels as if he's just been hit by lightning. Demonic possession is a bit of a touchy subject – he has personally never gone larking about inside a random human (why would he ever want to be anything less than himself, when he's so wonderful?) and get them to throw up pea soup or spin their head around or anything else so terribly unaesthetic. But there _are_ certain lowlife residents of the underworld, who can wriggle through the cracks and wreak havoc if given the chance. Humans should never call something that they don't want to come, and there are thin places, places that remember, that have built up enough of a certain kind of energy to react negatively with their fragile natures. But so far as it goes, Trixie may just be correct. If he can get someone to exorcise _him,_ that would indeed send him bodily to hell, and there is only one place on earth where they have people even remotely strong and trained enough to attempt a full exorcism of the actual Devil. Nor is it anywhere near driving distance. No, this is a bit of a longer trip.

"I. . ." He succeeds in snapping his mouth shut. "Right. Thank you, child. That was surprisingly non-terrible advice. Very good, glad we had this little skull sesh, time for you to – "

"I'm _coming."_

"You are not coming."

"I'm calling Amenadiddle."

"I am absolutely stealing that and calling him that for the rest of his miserable misbegotten life, if I ever speak to him again, which I won't, so thank you. But you are still not – "

Trixie hovers her thumb menacingly over the button.

"Ah! Bloody hell! Don't!"

She smirks at him.

You know, he really hates children.

This is how, after enduring typically terrible midmorning traffic and warning the attendant of the long-term parking lot that any single scratch upon his precious car will result in the not-at-all metaphorical wrath of the Devil, Lucifer Morningstar is walking grimly into LAX with an eight-year-old girl in tow and seriously regretting every life choice he has ever made. He was optimistic about scraping her off with her not having a passport, but Trixie informed him brightly that she does in fact have one, since she went to Mexico to visit some of Daddy's extended family a few years ago, and she brought it with her just in case (she seems to think that she would need it to get into hell, and he can't find it within him to disabuse her of the notion). He is absolutely bloody not taking her there, clearly, but unless he wants her to drag Amenadiel and Maze into this, he is – for the time being – forced to humiliatingly capitulate to her tyrannical whims. She plays entirely dirty enough to actually be his daughter, not that he _wants_ one. Though that would be amusing, if improbable since he wasn't on the earthly plane eight years and nine months ago.

He goes to the ticket counter, purchases a business-class ticket for himself, asks if they have a kennel that they put the children in, gets a very funny look, decides he really shouldn't get arrested for kidnapping, grits his teeth, is about to buy her an economy-class ticket, looks down at a significant tug on his trousers to see Trixie pointedly holding up her phone with Bloody Amenadiddle on the screen, curses his entire existence, and buys her a business-class ticket as well. As soon as he can get the spawn to fall asleep, he will steal her phone and thus remove her leverage, and. . . and. . . well, he hasn't gotten that far yet. Plus, it's looking horrifyingly likely that this won't be until they are actually on the airplane, and he can't just chuck her over the wing. Detective Douche is already going to murder him, cut him into little pieces, and serve him for lunch at the station cafeteria, and he's not sure that he doesn't deserve it.

They head down for security, as Lucifer once more vainly hopes that this will prove an insurmountable obstacle: as he has a British accent, an American passport, and a name like Lucifer Morningstar, it is clearly rather strange that he has a young girl with an entirely different last name accompanying him. Indeed, the TSA agent squints at their tickets, at their passports, and then up at him like a near-sighted gynecologist. "Is this child a family member of yours, Mr. Morningstar?"

"She's – " Right. "She's my partner's daughter. Family emergency."

"Miss Espinoza, you'd tell me if this man was taking you out of the country against your will, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I would," Trixie says. "But he's not. We're going to deal with things together. This is my Lucifer." She grabs his hand. Lucifer winces.

"Do you have permission in writing from one of the child's parents to take her with you?"

"No, you daft wanker, I bloody well don't!" Lucifer is getting agitated. "Because one of them is stuck in hell, which I'm trying to get her out of, and the other one is – well, never mind him, like I said, family emergency!" If this cretinous blob of unflavored gelatin delays him any longer, it is going to get messy. He leans over the checkpoint. "Tell me, blob. What do you want? _Really_ want. Has to be a thankless job, toiling among the masses of potential evildoers, weeding out who's the worst of them all, stripping them bare, forcing them into pointless humiliations, revealing their dirty secrets – believe me, I do know something about that. So. Spill, eh?"

The TSA agent's eyes flutter. "I. . . I want to be a hero," he says. "Stop a terrorist attack."

"Well, there's going to _be_ a terrorist attack of a rather different sort if you don't let me get on my way, and that's no good for you then, is it? But here, I'll make you a deal. I'll see to it that some poor sod with a fake bomb toddles in here in another few days, you'll be the one to catch him, get your picture in the bloody paper and a big fat gold star by your name on the Employee of the Month award. Now stamp the tickets and snappy about it, _capisce?"_

Once said tickets are stamped, he pulls off his shoes for the walk of shame through the metal detector (if he wanted to do serious harm to everyone on board, there is no way this absurd security theater would stop him) and recollects on the far side, seething, as Trixie skips through to join him. They head into the terminal; they have a few hours to wait, and she covetously eyes up the food court. "Can I have a Cinnabon, Lucifer?"

"No."

"Can I _please_ have a Cinnabon?"

He blows out an utterly martyred breath. "If I buy you one, do you promise to shut up?"

Trixie solemnly crosses her heart, he duly buys her a large and sticky cinnamon roll, then makes a beeline for the duty-free shop and acquires the biggest bottle of vodka they offer. Then Trixie wants to go to the bookstore, and he decides it might not be a bad investment to make sure she has something to do on the very long flight that does not involve harassing him and making his life unbearable (more than it currently is). He would rather die an ignominious death by a thousand poker-wielding housewives than have anyone snoop on his card transactions and discover that he bought a stack of Disney princess coloring books and middle-grade fantasy novels, as well as some sparkly gel pens and unicorn and fairy stickers. He keeps an eagle eye on her bag, since he's taking the first chance he has to seize her phone, but Trixie is wise to the prospect of ambush, and keeps it well out of his reach. Scuffling with her would definitely get him arrested, as well as make the detective very angry when he finds her again, and he can't risk that. Bloody hell. This is genuinely the worst day of his entire life.

Lucifer debates calling Dan himself and telling him to come by LAX to pick Trixie up, but that will result in a chewing-out from Detective Douche that he is in no mood to stomach, and, well, Trixie _was_ the one to give him the break in the case. He's going to get yelled at by someone (probably many someones) anyway, and bloody hell, fuck the lot of them directly up their collective nether aspects. At least he's doing something, at last, that could potentially result in measurable forward progress. Anyone with a problem can get in bloody line.

Just a few minutes before boarding for their flight is due to be called, Trixie pulls out her phone again and calls someone, having looked at the clock carefully enough to make Lucifer sure that she is timing it precisely to be sure she gets their voicemail. Then she says brightly, "Hi, Daddy, it's me. Me and Lucifer are going on an adventure. It was my idea and I kind of made him do it, so don't be mad at him. I know I'm grounded until I'm like, _eleven,_ but it's important, okay? We're going to find Mommy and get her home. I love you, Daddy. Okay, bye."

With that, she hangs up, as Lucifer regards her wearily through his vodka haze. "You are a pernicious and conniving infant. Are you _sure_ you're not adopted?"

"I'm just determined." Trixie looks at him stubbornly. "You and Mommy solve cases together. Now Mommy isn't here, so that makes me your partner instead. Doesn't it?"

Lucifer gazes up at the terminal ceiling. How like Dad to never be around when you need him. The last thing he needs is to be drawn further into this juvenile quagmire, but he can't help asking. "How did you know I'd be at your mother's house, instead of Lux?"

"Because you're running away," Trixie says. "Just like me. And besides. Because you miss her."

That catches him dead to rights, so that he can't even come up with the feeblest of denials, and he glances steadfastly away, rather than let her see that blow landed. "Well," he says at last. "You're a brave little imp, I'll give you that. And you clearly love your mother, just like I – just like you should, even if she doesn't let you have nice things. Fine then, Detective. Come on."

Trixie beams brightly enough to do something strange to his insides, as if no matter the general wrack and ruin that is his life now and for the foreseeable future, he has at least managed, among all the catastrophe, to make this little girl happy. He has no idea what to do with it and frankly is rather disquieted, as it's not something he needs getting around; he has a reputation to uphold, after all. She hops to her feet like a sprightly gazelle, as he groans and hauls himself off the offensively uncomfortable chair like a blundering warthog, takes hold of her gingerly by the sleeve, waits in the queue until their number is called, and walks down the gangway. It is an eleven-hour flight to Zurich, Switzerland, a two-hour layover there, and then a further hour and a half to Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, Fiumicino, Rome. Let it not be said that he is failing to take the bull (or the devil) by the horns.

It's close to dusk by the time they push back from the gate, Trixie having switched off her phone both to prevent Dan from calling at an inopportune moment, and to prove to Lucifer that since he has extended to her this gesture of trust, she will likewise do the same. She colors and reads for the first few hours, but as the flight gets darker and longer, she starts to nod off, and Lucifer fetches down the blanket from the overhead compartment and hands it to her. He has already made sure that the poor fools in front of them do not recline their seats on pain of instant hellfire (god, he bloody wishes) and he can see that some of the thrill of the adventure is wearing off as Trixie props her chin on her hands and looks at him with puppy-dog eyes. "Do you think Mommy's okay?"

"Ah. . ." He considers. "She's very resourceful, you know. And frustratingly immune to me. If it's the same with hell, I'm sure she's doing fine." And if not, he will tear anyone who has laid a finger, claw, or tentacle on her into a thousand smoking little pieces. "Go to sleep."

Trixie nods, unfolds the blanket, nabs one of the inadequately sized pillows, then raises the armrest, stretches out, and puts the pillow, and her head, in his lap before he can protest. He looks down, supposing he could move her, but the spawn _has_ had a trying day (not nearly trying as his, and she's most of the reason it's been tried, but still). He is a gentleman. A lady is in distress. He shall just have to suck it up and deal.

He dozes off as well, listening to the steady hum of the jet engines, until they finally land in Switzerland, make their connection to Rome, and land late in the afternoon of the next day. Trixie, having slept most of the way, is dismayingly fresh as a daisy, whilst he feels like three-day-old panini scraped off the underside of a grill, and there is not enough espresso served by men in white aprons in the entire bloody city to compensate for the lack. She is looking everywhere, wide-eyed, at the scooters zooming by on cobbled streets, beautiful old buildings, the ruins of the Colosseum (Lucifer smirks to himself, used to have a few good goes with lions there, didn't they?) the roving packs of _ragazzi_ with gelled hair and motorcycle jackets whistling at every woman who passes, the sidewalk cafes and the churches ( _so many bloody churches,_ he's fine with one at a time, but this gives him a constant urge to sneeze) and the rest of the sights. As it happens, however, they are not here merely for the cultural value. They are – it sounds like the start to a bad joke, _so one day the Devil walks into the Vatican –_ here to find an expert.

It is too late to go visiting today, so he finds them a guesthouse, lasciviously eyeing up a few beautiful Italian madonnas in the lobby before unhappily remembering his underage roommate, and that not even he can get away with telling Trixie to just cover her eyes and hum loudly. Besides, he can't help but replay that kiss with Chloe right before Amenadiel inconsiderately ruined everything (which he supposes should have been an omen of what was to come). That was. . . that was _different,_ like nothing he's ever experienced, and for some reason, he doesn't want to go back to the usual, the rote, the ever-changing roulette of women he doesn't know and doesn't give a damn about. It still scares him spitless, everything that happens to him where the detective is concerned, but for once, and of course right when she's in no way available to perform further testing, it's not only fear. It's curiosity, and excitement. An interest in finding out. If, that is, he ever bloody sees her again, or in any state to recognize.

They get something delicious for dinner, finally crash hard after all the traveling, and wake up the next morning to a three-minute voicemail from Dan demanding to know where they have gone and that he will absolutely consider pressing charges if Lucifer does not call him back right now. Very well, Lucifer calls him back right now. They're nine hours ahead of Los Angeles, so it's still last night there, and after a conversation that mostly consists of shouting and him ordering Dan to listen to Trixie's bloody voicemail, and Trixie herself getting on the line and once more explaining that she made Lucifer do it, and she's sorry but she _really_ wants Mommy home, they more or less, with great rancor, get it sorted out. Dan seems about ready to get on a plane and fly out there himself, demanding to know how it can be safe to take his third-grade daughter if it's not safe to take him, and Lucifer, vastly irritated, shoots back that no, of course he's not planning to take her into hell. He'll. . . he'll just. . .

Oh, bollocks.

Having disposed of Dan via the sophisticated and expert-level move of hanging up on him, and engaging in a brief and considerable panic as to _what_ exactly he is going to do with the urchin once he poofs off in a cloud of smoke (there are orphanages, right? He can leave her at an orphanage for a few days, can't he?) Lucifer grabs hold of her, charges downstairs, and out into the plaza. He is just in the process of having absolutely no useful ideas when he notices someone across the way, eating pastry, sipping espresso, and observing him resignedly. The someone is male, tall, black, bald, and wearing sunglasses. The someone is his brother.

Oh, _bollocks._

Amenadiel regards them for a nice long moment, just to make it abundantly clear how much Lucifer needs his help, then nods at someone behind them. Maze strolls out in a little traveling outfit that is doubtless to the great delight of some previous _ragazzi;_ "previous" in this case meaning "probably now dead." She looks at Lucifer and Trixie, doesn't seem at all surprised to see the latter, and says archly to the former, "You are _such_ an idiot."

"How did – " He swivels furiously from side to side like a cornered bear. "How did you – "

"Do you think we're total idiots, Luci? Wait." Amenadiel puts up a hand. "No, don't answer that. We worked it out with some thinking, what you'd probably end up concluding was your best option, and Maze ran your recent card transactions. Two tickets to Rome, a room at a guesthouse, quick Google Maps search for the address – it wasn't that hard to track you down."

Lucifer cringes. He will never hear the end of it if Maze is also aware of said Disney coloring books. "Well, good for you then, isn't it? There are more bloody churches here than anyone needs, I'm sure you can find something boring and sanctimonious to keep you busy."

"Can I flash the Pope?" Maze asks. "We're going to the Vatican, right? He probably hasn't seen a naked woman in his entire life. Please? It would be fun."

"I – no, Mazikeen. No. I cannot believe I am uttering these words, but you may not display your unmentionables, lovely as they are, to the head of the Roman Catholic Church. We need them to _help_ us, not to throw us in one of their secret Templar dungeons for the next few thousand years, or whatever it bloody is. That hack Dan Brown would probably get another five terrible novels out of it." Lucifer throws his arms in the air in disgust. "And you all think _I'm_ irresponsible!"

"You left the country with an eight-year-old girl and didn't even bother to tell her father you were doing it, to go to hell, with no plan to take care of her after you did, after not telling us what you were up to, after painting most of Los Angeles red while drinking and driving, after distributing at least half a dozen illegal substances and/or contraband goods to extremely suspect people, and I don't even want to know what else. Yes, Luci, I think you're irresponsible. Sorry."

"Oh. That reminds me." Lucifer snaps his fingers. "Can you please arrange for some chap to walk into the departures terminal at LAX with a fake bomb in his luggage? Make sure the other chap who looks like a blob is the one to tackle him, or however that works. It's for a deal."

Amenadiel just stares at him.

"What? I'm a man of my word, I promised him he could stop a terrorist! Like I said, _fake,_ I'm not expecting the damn thing to actually be dangerous!"

"You need so much help, Lucifer."

"Not nearly as much as you do, Amenadiddle." Lucifer wheels back on Maze. "Stop looking at me like that. It's disagreeable."

"You won't let me flash the Pope, but you wanna send a bomb into LAX? How come you get to have all the fun?"

"A fake bomb! _Fake!"_ Lucifer cannot understand why they can't grasp this essential point. And oh bloody mother of himself, he has nearly forgotten about Trixie, who is sitting there and giggling at them. "Besides. She made me do it!"

Maze saunters over to Trixie, looks her up and down, and offers her a fist bump.

"We will talk about. . . things. . . later." Amenadiel crumples up his pastry bag and tosses the crumbs, which immediately results in a riot of screaming pigeons descending on them like carpet bombs. "In the meantime, well, two angels and a demon have to walk into the Vatican. Like you said, I'm pretty sure Dan Brown is having spasms. Let's go."

Keeping a sharp eye on Maze, they join the throngs entering Vatican City, into bustling St. Peter's Square, as Trixie hangs onto Lucifer's hand (he doesn't have a leash and he is not about to run the headache of losing her in the crowd) and stares excitedly around. Lucifer wonders if there are any hot young nuns or if those only exist in pornography, and then likewise remembers his inexplicable desire to behave himself in that regard. Trixie thinks the Swiss Guards look funny in their stripey bloomers, to which Lucifer agrees that yes, they very much do. Right then, sightseeing over, down to business. Wherever you find the Vatican's top exorcist, it is probably not loitering around the plaza and feeding the evil pigeons.

It takes quite a bit of bluffing and mesmerizing and the constant low-level threat of a Maze spectacle, Amenadiel posing as "Dr. Canaan" the theology professor, Lucifer shouting in exasperation that he is the Devil at a dozen different people who cross themselves and back away, the Guards wanting to have a chat, Amenadiel smoothing things over, and too many other assorted hardships to catalogue, but they finally find themselves in front of a Father Virgilio Vincenzi, a spry little priest of about seventy who says that yes, if they have a particularly strong demonic problem, he is confident he should be able to help them. At that, Amenadiel pushes Lucifer forward, demonstrating that he is the actual demonic problem, and asks if Father Virgilio would believe that this is the Devil in the flesh, and he needs to get back to hell. Not for his own reasons, but to save a woman he cares about, a human woman, trapped down there.

Father Virgilio, or Father Gil as he has said he commonly goes by, takes off his glasses, polishes them on his cassock, puts them back on, peers at Lucifer, takes them off again, polishes them a second time, and puts them back on. He must have seen and heard a lot of strange things during his career, but this one surely comes close to taking the cake. "Well," he says at last. "They did say that Satan was the most beautiful of all the angels in heaven, before his fall."

"Thank you." Lucifer beams. "See. Like this bloke already."

Father Gil seems skeptical but not dismissive of their story, as he says that a trained exorcist's first job is to rule out all other possible causes: mental illness, faking, environmental or atmospheric factors, and so on, and work from the assumption that it is _not_ demonic activity, until it can be proved without other logical options to be so. Their case, of course, is rather different, as he has never had a fell spiritual entity walk up to him and voluntarily _ask_ to be exorcised, much less supposedly to rescue a human dragged down Below by someone even worse. Maze looks offended at the way he is talking about demons and feels the need to chime in that she is one, but she's never done something like this, hashtag #NotAllDemons. Lucifer testily points out that she does like torturing people, to which Maze retorts that she only does it when they're dead and they deserve it anyway. Amenadiel clears his throat very loudly to get them to stop arguing in front of the nice exorcist, and yes, yes, this _is_ Lucifer's life now. Marvelous.

"Look," Lucifer says at last. "Can you bloody do it or not?"

"I. . . could certainly try, yes. But this. . ." Father Gil looks at the four of them: the Devil, the Devil's big brother, a demon, and an eight-year-old human girl, who is sitting on his office chair and swinging her legs as she pages through a book about spiritual warfare. "This is. . . remarkable. If you are who you say, then the Devil, surely, must be acting selflessly? And for a human's sake? Is this even possible? After all, you _are_ the Prince of Lies."

"I beg your pardon." Lucifer is indignant. "I don't lie, actually. Something else you got wrong, along with the horns and tail bit – see?" He wags his excellent arse in the priest's direction, which the bugger is probably not able to properly appreciate, alas. "The truth is always far more dangerous, and you humans delude yourselves plenty. I don't sit on your shoulder and _make_ you do or say anything. You always have the bloody choice. It's why I fell out with Dad in the first place. One of the reasons, at any rate. If you say the Devil made you do it, then _that_ is the biggest lie of all, and I'd hope someone supposedly as bloody smart as you would recognize it!"

Amenadiel puts a hand on his arm, warning him down, as Lucifer hisses out a breath, stops, and looks away. "Apologies," he says again, tightly. "I. . . do need your help."

Father Gil regards him for a long moment, wary but fascinated. Then his eyes flick to Amenadiel. "You're an angel."

"I. . . used to be." Amenadiel hesitates. "I'm no longer entirely sure what I am."

"But you were. You've been there since the beginning of time. With Him."

"Yes." Amenadiel sighs. "If you'll help my brother, I'll answer all your questions, if that's what you want. As long as you don't tell anyone, of course. But for you, privately, sure. Have at me."

Father Gil considers this offer, which is clearly a tempting one. Then he shakes his head. "No," he says decisively. "I'd rather keep the mystery, and even the doubt. Sometimes it can be the truest thing about faith. And I don't know exactly what you are, but if you're willing to risk this, it may be as you say, and if we were to baptize Martians, why should we scruple at helping the Devil himself, if he asks genuinely and with penitent heart? It is no less than a miracle. I'll see what I can do. Come back tomorrow evening. We'll try it then."

Lucifer starts to say something sharp, having been prepared for a denial or dismissal, and bites his tongue. He feels strange, shattered, fragile, like a cupboard of dishes overturned and smashed on the floor. He nods once, tightly. Then whirls around, stalks out of the dark office without a word, and emerges into the night, into the sea of humans with faith, with their little crosses and their Pope figurines and their prayer books and their _hope,_ entirely and altogether alone.

He doesn't sleep much, and spends most of the next day pacing, drinking a lot of espresso, smoking even more cigarettes, and not feeling any better by the time they finally set out. Maze and Trixie trot ahead, as Amenadiel drops back to walk next to Lucifer. Finally he says, "Luci, let me come with you."

"No."

"I pulled a few shifts filling in for you. I know the place too. You can't do this by yourself, it's going to get you. . . well. . . it's not going to be the same. You're not in charge any more, down there. You'll be affected by it."

"Me? Affected by hell?" Lucifer laughs dismissively. "Hit your head too hard during a bump on the flight over, did you? Oh yeah, the one you took on a human airplane since you don't have wings either, _bro?_ Just like me. We're the sad pathetic failures of the family, in all our arse-up glory. Remember what I said. Dad forgives – well, everyone except me. I don't."

Amenadiel struggles for an argument, any argument. "How many times do I have to say I'm sorry about what happened to Chloe?"

"As many times as you want." Lucifer's eyes gleam red. "Don't expect it to make any difference, though. As much danger as she is doubtless in, it would be even more if I took you down there to try to 'help,' believe me. Thanks but no _bloody_ thanks. Take Trixie home and make sure nothing gets out of hell to eat her – I'll pretend not to notice if it eats Dan instead. Still, she and the detective inexplicably care for Sir Douche, so do make it spit him back up."

"Luci – " Amenadiel jogs to keep up. "You're angry with me, and you have a right to be. But if you go down there thinking you can handle everything alone, that you're still the unchallenged Lord of Hell and they'll just be bowing and scraping to welcome you home. . . don't forget – "

"Oh yes." Lucifer barks a humorless laugh. "About to quote that incredibly dull and clichéd saying, were you? 'Pride goeth before the fall?' As the world's leading expert on both, I'll thank you to butt out and shut up. You're not coming. If I return with Chloe, well, she is a far better person than me, and if she wants to absolve you for failing her, that's her decision. If not. . ."

"Don't," Amenadiel says quietly. "You've come so far, Lucifer. Don't undo it all now."

Lucifer ignores him, walking faster, as they pass the gates, present the credentials Father Gil gave them, and head up a set of winding steps, the lights of Rome glittering across the dark hills. They reach the office, which smells of candlewax and dust and coffee; Catholic exorcisms are very civil affairs, no rooster blood or chanting in tongues. The priest is waiting for them, seems both surprised and relieved that they actually turned up. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, of course I'm ready," Lucifer says, voice clipped. He looks down, fiddling with his cufflinks. "Just popping home for a quick business trip, why would I not be?"

Trixie pauses, then runs over and hugs him hard. "I trust you," she says. "Go find Mommy."

"Ah. . . yes." He stands there awkwardly, before patting her quickly on the head. "Good child, there's a good child. I, ah. Thank you. Not for blackmailing me and giving your father a heart attack, but – yes. Thank you. You can let go now."

Trixie does so, smiling shyly up at him, as he coughs, turns away, and follows Father Gil's instructions to stand inside the candlelit circle. Amenadiel and Maze take hold of Trixie, pulling her safely out of the way, as the priest opens his missal, and starts to read in Latin.

At first, nothing happens. Then a candle flickers. Then two. Father Gil holds up his crucifix, repeats a few phrases, and Lucifer stumbles. He catches himself immediately, but Father Gil keeps reading, and he grimaces, torn between his instinctive urge to fight back, to stay in the human realm, and the knowledge that he needs to let go and allow it to take him. The candles flicker harder, and a wind starts to sweep through the room, even though the windows are closed. It carries, ever so faintly, the whiff of brimstone. Father Gil reads even louder, close to a shout.

Lucifer is breathless, doubled over, struggling to stay upright as he's driven to his knees – an exorcism is no light option, no ticket to the underworld on a nice river cruise down the Styx, but the full-scale barrage from all of Dad's spiritual machine guns at once. Trixie makes a convulsive movement as if to run to him and Maze and Amenadiel have to hold her back – they didn't want to bring her along and make her watch, but she insisted. Then he howls in pain, going to all fours, buffeted from every side by the lashing wind. Apart from that, the only sound is his agonized gulping for air and the relentless force of Father Gil's reading.

The candles blow out, all at once. Something explodes. A bell sounds, very near at hand – hardly strange in the Vatican, perhaps, but there are no bells anywhere nearby.

Lucifer chokes something out. It might be, _Oh God._

Then the world is gone.


	4. Canto IV

**Canto IV**

The Devil does not come back to hell like one of the damned.

It's hard to explain, exactly. Just that one minute his eyes are still closed, fighting the pain and pull of the exorcism, the wrenching fishhook in his gut, and the next it simply – stops. As profound a transformation as if one moment you were burning to death, and the next you were perfectly fine (though considering where he's headed, it should be the opposite). Lucifer can feel the change on a particle level, when he opens his eyes and sees the dark blue sky without stars or moon, and that he's standing by the roots of a massive, twisted, black tree. He planted the sprig he cut from the Tree of Knowledge when he first came here after being thrown out of Eden, at the headwaters of the five rivers of hell: the Styx, the Acheron, the Cocytus, the Phlegethon, and the Lethe. That John Milton fellow actually did get those right (Lucifer rather enjoys the way Milton wrote fanfiction about him; not bad, that one) and they flow out in all directions, glimmering eerily. This is the very heart of hell, the source of its power, the accumulated knowledge of the entire world turned tarnished and gnarled and corrupted with the weight of humanity's sins and shortcomings. He's always liked coming here to think; in fact, it was where he concocted his plot to get out of this entire racket in the first place. Far away from any of the tormented souls or the lesser demons, the one place in the entire underworld that only he knows about or how to find. Good to see that everything, at least here, is just how he –

"Son?"

He stumbles (actually _stumbles)_ as he whirls around, flaring – just as he sees something, _somebody_ moving by the roots, and the next moment, his mother steps out. He notes that she's still wearing Charlotte Richards' body, or at least the appearance of it. No matter her screeds about hating and disdaining all mortals and failing to find any worth in their filthy habits, she has apparently gotten rather attached to her pretty human face, doesn't want to lark about as a hideous demon or an amorphous cosmic being. Vanity, it'll get you every bloody time.

" _You."_ His eyes go scarlet. If he had wolf ears, they'd be laid back, and his teeth are bared. "I don't think I have a single thing to say to you, Mother, except that you're about to be very – "

"No, please. Wait." Charlotte (is he supposed to think of her as Lilith now? He doesn't bloody like saying that name out loud, the same principle as not calling anything you don't want to come, so Charlotte seems safer) reaches for him. "Lucifer, honey. Please, you can punish me as you want in a moment, but you have to save Chloe first."

That, to say the least, rocks him. "What? You dragged her down here, why do you think I'll walk into your devious little trap and – "

"I didn't, but that doesn't matter. You have to listen to me, Lucifer. Whatever I've done, you have to help her. I'd never forgive myself if you had to lose her because of me. As I said, after that, you can do to me whatever you want, but – please. I know you won't lose her just to spite me. Not my sweet boy."

He's tempted to seriously, _seriously_ take exception to that – but his heart is in his throat, he reminds himself that he'll hang her on the rack in a minute, and ducks among the dark, tangled roots, having to bend almost double. "Detective?" His voice echoes in the murk. "Detective – are you in here? Chloe? Chloe, where are you?"

He's on red alert for a potential ambush from behind, Mum tricking him in here off his guard so she can jump on his back and bite his head off, but there's nothing. Only the sound of dripping water, from the hellish springs that feed this tree and give it its dark life. A wounded human lying alone at the very heart – no, _no._ He sees something, _someone_ ahead, and breaks into a run, reaching it – reaching _her –_ in a frantic flurry. "Detective? Bloody hell! Say something!"

Chloe can barely lift her head. She's battered, bruised, burned, broken, hands clutching feebly for his as he looks her up and down in terror, his own hands flapping uselessly with the need, the soul-shaking compulsion to do something, _anything._ But he can't help her, and he can't trade his life again, and he has no idea what to do. It's not like he hasn't seen humans in pain before – bloody hell, he's seen them every day for millennia, and put many of them in that state to start with. But this, no, _this_ is entirely different, and it feels like it's twisting, twisting in him to the core. He tries to find a place to touch her where he won't hurt her more, and gingerly brushes her sweaty hair out of her eyes. "Chloe?" he whispers. "Mum took you here, didn't she?"

"N. . .no." Chloe heaves for breath. "It was an accident. She was trying to save me. We were. . . wrong about her, Lucifer. She does. . . she does want to change. If I don't make it. . ."

"Rubbish. Total rubbish. Of course you're going to make it, I'm getting you out of here right now." Admittedly he isn't _quite_ sure how, as last time required his wings to escape, and he doesn't have those now, or a return ticket via Father Gil, but he _will_ think of something. "Don't you dare die on me, Detective, don't you bloody dare. You'll be all right. Think of something, like, oh, like your bloody devious child, who blackmailed me into taking her with me to Rome. Long story, but for the record, in no way my fault. She misses you. Think of that, eh? Even Sir Douche hasn't been dreadful. You'll be back home before you know it."

"Lucifer. . ." Chloe's head sags, as his hand cups her face, trying frantically to get her to look at him. "I can't. I can't. . . make it back. Just. . . with your mother, go. . ."

"No. No, no, no, no, no." He boosts her into the crook of his arm, climbing up on the roots with her. "You can fight, I know you can, that's you, you never bloody give up on anything. Never have any fun either. Come on, Detective, be stubborn, be – "

She isn't answering.

" _Detective?"_ He almost shakes her like a rag doll, before catching himself. Her eyes are open but sightless, and he missed it, he _missed_ it, he couldn't save her, she slipped away while he was still babbling on and never told her anything, never said –

His heart squeezes in half. He stares into the void. He cannot contemplate anything, not when his world has just been blown apart in his arms. Not Chloe. This wouldn't – this can't –

This can't be happening.

Not Chloe. Not Chloe "never stops working" Decker. Not Chloe who fights for everything and everyone, even when they don't deserve it. Not Chloe. She doesn't sigh and slip away without a struggle and tell him to carry on without her. Shoves his arse out of the way (usually has to save it first, if he's being honest) and handles it herself. Chloe would never die this way, no matter how badly she was injured. Would be out there slapping Mum into cuffs and smoking a cigarette (or whatever she does) waiting for him to lark along and realize what he missed. Which means –

"This is a trick," Lucifer says out loud. "This isn't real."

Hell is affecting him.

Hell is _affecting him._

He stands up all at once, dumping not-Chloe's body out of his lap – even as it crumbles to black dust and blows away among the twisted roots. He's blazingly bloody furious and he can feel the entire tree trembling with the force of it, burning up among the branches and sap, overflowing into the headwaters of the rivers. Strides lethally down the passage and emerges back into the perpetual twilight, about to explode. _"MOTHER!"_

"What?" Charlotte scrambles anxiously to her feet. "Did you save her?"

"No, I bloody well _didn't,_ because it was a trick, you sent me in there to see if it could get under my skin, and I _bloody well_ almost fell for it!" The wind is rising, whirling around their legs, as they face each other. "I've been gentle with you far too long, and now I'm going to – "

"Wait. _Wait."_ She looks genuinely confused. "What are you talking about? That's what I saw when I came down here. Chloe was badly injured, I tried to save her, to keep her alive. Are you saying it was just some kind of. . . illusion?"

"Yes, it was, and don't expect me to believe that your worst fear is seeing her hurt, Mother!"

"But. . ." Charlotte reaches for him, putting her hands on his arms, even as he tenses in preparation to rip away, but can't quite make himself do it. "That _is_ what I saw. If it's affecting you, it's affecting me too. Maybe I am. Changing. Seeing just how much she means to you. I made a mistake trying to get her out of your life, I realize that now. If I really want to be your mother and start over together, I can't destroy what you had already built beforehand."

"You're lying," Lucifer says, but with suddenly less conviction than before. "This is some. . . some bloody angle of yours, I know it is. I'm not going to fall for your dupes and your tricks and your mind games one more time, _Mummy._ Not until you tell me the truth. Did you drag the detective down here? On purpose?"

Charlotte's shoulders slump in a long sigh. "Yes," she says quietly, at last. "Yes, I did."

"And that puts you in my good graces how?"

"This is hell, Lucifer! This is where we're punished for our mistakes!" She takes his hand and holds it against her face, looking at him imploringly. "If I'm here to see that I shouldn't have done what I did, with her and with Brad and with the children, I. . ."

"Brad?"

"My husband. You know I didn't mean to."

"Charlotte Richards' husband, you mean. The one she couldn't stand even as a mortal, the feckless cocaine-dealing stay-at-home father with salami stuck to his shirt and an affinity for utterly tragic plastic footwear. Yes, I remember him. I understand how you're utterly verklempt over it. I still don't believe you'd ever – "

"How is it so impossible that I could come to care about humans? You did."

"I. . ." He opens and shuts his mouth, angry and flustered and, as the case always is with his mother, unable to tell how much is truth and how much is manipulation. "Suddenly you're suffering for it, so you're sorry? That's not how repentance works, Mum. Believe me, I know a bit about false confessions, about people blubbing and weeping how sorry they are, how can I _please_ stop punishing them now, they're very, very sorry. And you know what?" His lips draw back over his teeth, eyes burning even redder. "I don't."

"But you don't have to, Lucifer!" She puts her arms around his neck. "Remember what I said? About how your father made you do that? I know you don't _really_ want to throw me back into my cage now, any more than you did when we were on earth. Especially after Uriel. If we band together, you'll never have to worry about your father sending any more of your brothers after Chloe. We can protect her. _I_ can protect her. You know I'm the only thing your father ever feared. Why else do you think he cast me down in this miserable pit? If I'm on _your_ side, there's nothing that can touch her. I'll make a real effort to get to know her."

Despite himself, despite everything, Lucifer wavers. "You tried to kill her."

"And I want to show you that I'm sorry." His mother looks up at him earnestly. "I know you have no reason to trust me, so I want to earn it. You know this place will be affecting her, that we need to get her out. And you just saw. Things are different now. You can't do it alone."

He wants to deny that, but he can't. The idea that he _could_ be susceptible to hell's tricks and torments and illusions has left him deeply rattled, his chest aching with the too-raw memory of how it felt to watch Chloe die in his arms. He can't take any bloody chance of that happening for real, and as devious as she might be, Mum has been locked up for thousands of years. She doesn't know the tricks of this place, surely has no friends among the demons who took it in turns to add to the misery of her eternal confinement, and has no more way of getting out than he does. Dad knows it's an utterly terrible idea to let her run around by herself, unsupervised, collecting nasty little surprises. At least this way he can watch her.

"Fine," he growls at last. "But I'm warning you. One single misstep, one tiny little lie, and it's over. I don't have to put you back in prison, you know. I can just annihilate you and have it done."

Charlotte smiles, linking her arm through his. "Maybe. But I know you don't really want to. You were always my favorite son. You were so sweet and beautiful. So kind. The loveliest angels make the cruelest demons, and that is your father's fault. He had to know that this – " she waves a hand at the endless black hills – "would wear on you the most. But as I said, it was this or death, and I couldn't stand that. I still hope one day you can forgive me."

Lucifer makes an indeterminate noise in his throat. He doesn't like it when she talks about the days before the fall. He only has a hazy memory of them, just as anyone does with a far-distant childhood, utterly removed from anything they are now, anything they wanted to be. He's shut out most of it, as well. Who cares if your child was nice when they were five, if they grow up to be a Hitler or a Ted Bundy or a person who takes ten minutes ahead of you at Starbucks when you're late for work – or you know, the actual bloody Devil? He can't let Mum get under his skin again. He might be keeping her close for reconnaissance purposes, but lose control of the situation again, and there is literally no power on heaven or earth that can save him.

They descend the gnarled roots and regard their options. Lucifer could conjure up a boat to take them down the Styx, which is certainly one way to make an entrance, if somewhat Egyptian-pharaoh, _so_ last five millennia ago (those people knew plenty about the underworld, as did the Greeks). But he's not sure why he should go to so much trouble. He's the Devil; he can move through hell at will. Want to be somewhere, and there he is. Much simpler.

He takes hold of Charlotte's arm, thinks that he would like to be home, and waits expectantly for it to materialize around him. Probably looking a bit dusty, but he can sort that. It's taking a moment or too longer than he thought, but, well, he is admittedly out of practice, having to learn to move around the human world in the typical way. Makes sense there's a bit of rust.

They're still standing by the riverbank. Hell does not appear to be altering or moving in any way. Neither, for that matter, have they.

As mortified as if he was tumbling into bed with an attractive young lady and then discovered that things were not functioning properly (thank heavens that has never happened to _him)_ Lucifer tries again. Home. Now. Not hard. He'll be there in a twinkling, he'll be –

He's still not there.

"You can't do it, can you?" Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "Not like you used to."

"Mug it, Mum. I certainly won't be able to manage with you yammering in my ear." Lucifer straightens his sleeves, ruffled. This is absurd. Almost _more_ embarrassing than if he couldn't perform, you know, otherwise. It could have something to do with no wings, but it feels like more than that – as if something is actively resisting him, pushing back on him, taking his power for itself. But that's impossible, unless –

"What are you doing?" He spins back on her. "What sort of clever little wounded-bird act do you think you're pulling, getting me to – "

Charlotte holds up her hands. "I'm not doing anything. Look at me. I'm still in this human body. If I was meddling with it, you'd know. You've spent long enough as my jailer, haven't you?"

He flinches, despite himself. "Touché." Contemplates trying again, third time the charm and all that, but he can already tell that it is not going to work. And despite himself, he doesn't think his mother is lying – at least about this. Probably making up for it by lying her face blue with everything else, but one bloody problem at a time. He doesn't actually know how far it is from here to the more peopled precincts of hell, because he's never walked it the usual way. Might have to whip up a boat after all, though if Mummy dearest thinks he's rowing it while she sits there like a princess, she's in for quite an unhappy surprise.

"Why _did_ you cut off your wings?" Charlotte asks, as he's working on option two: glare at the river until it builds the boat for him. "They were so beautiful."

"Maze cut them off," Lucifer grunts. "I didn't think I'd be needing them any more. Especially when having them meant I was still tied to this wretched place."

"Cutting off your nose to spite your face, wasn't it, darling?" Charlotte regards him pityingly. "Here. Let me help."

"I don't _need_ your help, I – "

Ignoring him, she strides to the bank, does something with her hands, and there's a whoosh and a rushing sound. The next instant, a handsome sharp-prowed boat knits itself together from the shadows, settling on the broad black pane of the Styx with elegant ripples. _Darkness moved over the face of the deep, and the earth was without form._ Before there was anything, there was water. Not that he wants remotely to think about that, as nobody likes to envision their parents doing the nasty, even when it's the reason all of creation exists. That's what this is, the left-over dark matter from before space and time, the bits of stuff that human astrophysicists keep trying to pin down, but never can quite get to. How is _she_ managing the boat, and he can't?

"I'm watching you, Mother," Lucifer informs her as he steps on board, reaches a coldly correct hand to help her over, and they push away into the fast-running current. "Don't take this to mean that I trust you or forgive you, because I don't."

"You said so." She seems untroubled, sitting on the bench across from him, face half in shadow. "Tell me, why is it so hard to believe that no matter the mistakes I know I've made along the way, it comes from a place of pure love for my children? Love can change everything, even what you thought it never could touch. You know that."

"Do I?"

"You do." It's not Charlotte Richards' eyes that look back at him, dark and depthless, opaque and unreflective as tar. "We're the same, Lucifer. We're so very much the same."

"No, we're not. I don't make mistakes."

She laughs out loud at that. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, darling."

Lucifer doesn't answer, staring at the dark horizon. Whatever this little glitch is with his powers, he's going to have to sort it out instantly before it gets any more pressing, and bugger if he'd ever give Amenadiel the satisfaction of being right about anything. With family like this, who needs enemies, or however that bloody saying goes. Between bro and mum so sorely lacking their just comeuppance, it would be a miracle if he ever got back to tormenting anyone else.

At that, he wonders about Amenadiel and Maze, despite himself. Hopes they got Trixie back to Los Angeles, if for no other reason than that Chloe will surely want to see her when she gets home. And, well, it _was_ brave of the spawn, even if sorely inconvenient. He appreciates pluck in a woman, and he's here now. Plenty to sort out. And he's not coming back empty-handed.

He turns away from his mother, and waits.

* * *

For the rest of the day after Malcolm's shocking reappearance, Chloe can barely concentrate. She vaguely remembers Lucifer saying that sinners in hell weren't being punished properly because he was on earth and not down here, but, well, Lucifer _says_ a lot, most of which isn't worth the air it takes up. This is not a twist she was expecting, and all she can think about is how she is going to end that lying sack of shit for eternity and a day. Skims through the next batch of sinners, throws them into the fire because that's the job she's been brought here to do, and she's not going to open the door to Purgatory again as long as Malcolm is around and might try to get through. If he can get there, he could also theoretically somehow get back to Earth – he doesn't have his own body anymore, but he could steal one, just like Charlotte did, and she's willing to bet that's already occurred to him. She can't believe she's worrying about an interdimensional body-snatching demon that used to be a crooked cop, but, well, you can say her life has changed.

At last, she tells the Morrigan that she needs to call it a day, and stands up. The line of souls still looks endless as she leaves, and she feels a faint twinge of guilt at making them continue wait – though it's not like they have anything to look forward to once they finally reach the office. She feels strange. Sending countless people to their grisly fate will do that to you, even if they more or less deserved it. Is this what Lucifer has been doing for all these thousands of years, breaking up the tedium with visits down to the torture floor? Jesus. She's always thought he's just on the likeable side of totally dickish, but now she can't understand how he's not an absolute raving lunatic. Different if he's been doing it for so long, and is obviously not human, but still.

They drive back to Lucifer's house, and with a reminder from the Morrigan that it's same place, same time tomorrow, Chloe gets out and lets herself in. She quickly scans to see if anything's been disturbed or moved, but it hasn't, and she looks to check that the door can lock. Once she's done that, she feels somewhat better, but only slightly. God. She can't believe that fucking bastard hasn't been disintegrated into a thousand bits, and the only redeeming value is that now she can be sure to do it herself. That is _one_ damnation she will be sure to thoroughly enjoy.

She's starving, and briefly wonders if she could just think herself back to not being hungry, but that is a little too trippy for her taste, and she wants the comfort of real food. She supposes she could poof up individual ingredients to do some baking, but that sounds like too much work, and she summons a warm and delicious sausage calzone with a bottle of wine and a Caesar salad. There is probably not anything to watch on TV in hell except amateur MMA fights or World Series of Poker tournaments or Justin Bieber concerts, but she flicks on the flat screen and has a surf anyway. Everything looks like bad Halloween B-movies, and she'll have to put some effort later into getting halfway decent programming, but she can't relax right now. Not knowing that Malcolm is still out there somewhere, and she isn't doing anything about it.

Chloe returns the leftover food to the kitchen, then returns to the living room and begins testing to see if she has enhanced fighting powers. She can handle herself in a street scuffle or suspect apprehension or anything else she's encountered in the line of duty, but she has a hunch that that's not going to cut it here, and it takes her a few rather humiliating experiments to ascertain that no, being in hell for a day (for several days? For a week?) does not automatically turn you into a ninja. Apparently even Maze didn't just spring from the void fully formed and kicking ass (although maybe she did, you never know). Nor would it do any good to create herself a gun or any of her usual weapons when, you know, you can't exactly kill again whoever you're going to meet down here. Is there a Taser for the damned that they use to keep them in line? Whip of fire? She's not going to suddenly go Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, but it would be nice to have options.

As she's standing there, trying to work out what to do next, the door rattles.

Chloe goes tense all over, looking wildly around the room for anything that could possibly be used as a makeshift weapon. She's used to improvising, but she's running a bit short – until she glimpses the heavy bronze poker alongside the fireplace (this is hell, of course there's a fireplace) grabs it, takes up a position behind the door as it rattles and jerks again, and waits, heart pounding. If Malcolm has brought his local brute squad, he's in for a really, _really_ big –

The door opens. Chloe screams and jumps out, taking a swing, just as the intruder yells even louder, throws up an arm, and ducks. Which is how, as her dazzled vision clears, she realizes that she just missed braining Lucifer himself with it. "Wh – _what –_ "

"Bloody _hell!"_ He backs away hurriedly. "What on earth was that for, Detective? It's me!"

"Yes, I – I see that," she gasps, unsure whether to throw herself into his arms, or ask him some kind of question only the real Lucifer would know, or – she has no idea, she's still not sure it's really him, her heart won't stop pounding. It's _him,_ he's here, he came after her, just like she hoped – but all she can hear is Malcolm warning her that now the fun starts, that now they're both doomed beyond all hope of redemption or escape. "Why didn't you knock?"

"Why would I knock on the door of my own house? And put that – please, no more bloody pokers." Lucifer shudders, looking as if he's having unpleasant flashbacks. "What are _you_ doing here, anyway? Not that I'm not duly delighted to see you intact, of course, but – "

"I. . . I have no idea where to even start." Chloe retreats a few steps, keeping hold of the poker, but consents to lower it. "Really. No idea."

"I can imagine it's been. . . an eventful few days." His lips are tight as he moves over the threshold, glancing around. "Somebody give this place a makeover?"

"I fixed a few things, yes. I didn't want to live in a BDSM club if I didn't have to."

He snorts. Still hasn't cracked a smile. This is so patently unusual for goofy, oblivious, never-met-a-serious-situation-I-can't-inappropriately-joke-about Lucifer that it makes her frown deepen. "What's – "

"Chloe," a second voice says. "I was hoping I could have a chance to apologize."

Her spine snaps straight as a ramrod. Something cold and vicious comes over her as she lifts the poker, aiming it directly at the woman now about to enter the house. "You're not welcome here."

"I know you're mad at me." Charlotte raises her hands. "But that's not going to – "

" _Mad_ at you? You dragged me to _hell!_ It goes far beyond being _mad_ at you! I don't want to hear whatever you're selling this time and you – " Chloe whirls on Lucifer, feeling slapped. "You _brought_ her here with you? Is this some kind of sick – "

"Detective. Detective, please. Just. . . tread carefully, all right?"

"Tread carefully?" She's never seen him act with anyone the way he does around his mother –although she's used to the whole duck-and-cover routine with her own mom, in a somewhat different way – and it unsettles her to see Lucifer so totally, well, _cowed._ It's not entirely that he's afraid of Charlotte, although there is that, but just that she can push buttons in him and switch him into an entirely different person, almost that fast. She still has a deep and visceral stranglehold on some very deep and fragile part of her son's soul, and she keeps twisting. Chloe doesn't want to see what happens when there's nothing left to twist, and she reaches for Lucifer's arm. "Just – just tell her to go, right now. Tell her to go."

He looks up at her sidelong, and then his gaze flickers back to Charlotte. He doesn't answer.

"Well, I understand it's customary for the new girlfriend to try to assert her authority with the mother-in-law," Charlotte remarks, with a small sigh. "I suppose it's a parental rite of passage."

Both Lucifer and Chloe splutter at this description, though Chloe's not entirely sure if it isn't just from habit. That _was_ what she was hinting at, back at the penthouse before everything literally went to hell, but. . . that was predicated on the idea that, obviously, they were going to carry on with their _normal lives_ in the regular human world, not get stuck down here in _Final Destination._ As well as that Charlotte was no longer going to be a factor, and Chloe swivels to face her down. "I don't know if you've gotten Lucifer bamboozled again or what, but I actually can order you to be thrown back into your hoosgow, lady. If you have something to say, do it now."

"I wanted to. . ." Charlotte hesitates. "I wanted to apologize."

Chloe was prepared for any number of answers, but not that one, and it momentarily catches her on the hop. Only momentarily, though. "Apologizing is what you do when you, I don't know, borrow someone's car without asking and get into a fender bender, or forget to tell them about an important message, or something like that. This doesn't get fixed with an _apology."_

"Neither you nor Lucifer are the forgiving type, it seems." Charlotte surveys them imperturbably. "What happens when you make each other angry, then?"

"That is beside the point, Mum." Lucifer folds his arms threateningly. "If you're saying something, say it. Otherwise yes, I will chuck you out of the house. Apples for apples, eh?"

"I told you. That's what I'm trying to fix. To get us all back home where we belong." Charlotte does do a good 'earnestly honest and open' face, Chloe will give the conniving bitch that. "But Chloe, as I explained to my son earlier, I made a terrible mistake doing what I did to you, and this is the place where people go to be punished for their mistakes. Isn't it better if I make real amends, rather than just more pointless suffering? You can't like that any more than he does."

Chloe is all ready to fire back, until this last elegant stiletto catches her dead to rights between the ribs, and she shuts her mouth with a click. She's not into giving people second or third or fourth or twelfth chances, whatever they're on now with this crazy demon and her dangerous beguilements. Dan said sorry too, and that didn't fix their relationship or save everything he damaged irreparably with his lies. Lucifer's mother is different from her ex-husband, but words don't mean a damn. She's aware that she can't just throw Charlotte straight back onto the streets, where Malcolm and God knows who else would be happy to lend a sympathetic ear, but. . .

She's not an idiot. She knows that making your boyfriend choose between you and his mother never ends well for anyone (not that Lucifer is her boyfriend, but, well, it's the most convenient figure of speech for the moment). It's slightly more delicate when the former is the Devil and the latter is the Mother of Demons, yes, but still, same principle. "You've been trapped in hell for thousands of years, for good damn reason. Why should we believe anything you say?"

"Because that's precisely it. Because you have to know I will do anything, _anything,_ rather than go back to that torment." Charlotte looks straight at Lucifer, who is unable to entirely meet her eyes. "Because I haven't given up on what I came to earth for. If all that suffering and all that darkness couldn't drive the love out of me, isn't there hope for me yet?"

Chloe glances down. She doesn't want to be put into the position of being the monster here, the judge and jury and executioner – even if, of course, that's what she's been all day. But it's a bit more personal when it's your not-boyfriend's mother, than it is with a horde of faceless, decrepit sinners, Melissa Powell notwithstanding. The "be a good person" part of her wants to buy what Charlotte is saying, but the rest of her knows it would be foolish. Yet what choice do they honestly have?

"Tell me the truth," she says, not expecting any such thing. "If you had another chance to get revenge on your ex – "

"God – " Lucifer pipes in helpfully –

"Yes, him," Chloe goes on, as if this is any less weird than everything she's been up to recently. "You really expect us to think you wouldn't do anything you could to take it? You told me that was what you wanted, right before the whole throwing-into-hell thing. That you were going to make Lucifer come down here so he'd remember just what he had given up, and then he'd join you in your war against his father."

"I just want things to _change."_ Charlotte clenches a fist. "All three of us, we know the current setup isn't fair. Do you really want Lucifer to be trapped down here again, doing a job he hates for a father who wanted him destroyed? Never coming back to your little human toy village?"

Chloe hesitates. She doesn't answer out loud, but Charlotte can surely see it in her eyes.

"So there." Charlotte glances between them. "I'm your only hope of changing the rules. Otherwise, he'll have to stay here again, and Chloe, I know neither of us want that for him. We want him free to make his own choices at last, to live where he wants to live and do what he wants to do, without being cut down and double-crossed for it. If you care for him at all, you can't say you don't want that for him."

"I do want that for him," Chloe says, barely audible, and in that, realizes she's lost the battle, and possibly the war. Especially after seeing just what his life was like, trying and shuddering to imagine doing it for eternity, and more than that, she wants Lucifer to come back to Los Angeles. To come home. Even as she knows that _this,_ technically speaking, is his home, not up there, his extended fantasia vacation with babes and booze and drugs and fast cars and high living, and whatever little fun he had playing at being a detective with her. She doesn't think he's in any hurry to stay either. But it strikes her now, cold and slowly, that he will have to choose, and no matter what he does, something will fall apart.

"Fine." She looks at Charlotte, very cool and very level. "You can stay. For now. But one, one _single_ wrong move – "

"My son already made that clear, yes." Charlotte smiles, demure and close-mouthed, standoffishly. "I think I'll survive without you going through it again. After all, darling, despite all appearances to the contrary, this _is_ still your house. Don't you give the orders around here?"

Lucifer hesitates, but only briefly. "You heard the detective. Now go to bed, Mum. I'm sure there's a nice den for you to curl up in, and some bones to gnaw on."

Charlotte's gaze flickers, but she manages to hitch her smile back into place. "Such a gracious host. I'll find something to suit myself. Good night, then."

When neither of them answer, she turns gracefully on her heel and shows herself out, striding down the hall in search of whatever guest rooms the Devil's mansion might possess. Lucifer and Chloe stand in silence for a long moment, understandably shell-shocked, until Chloe jerks her head at him. "We need to talk."

He looks leery, as long conversations about serious subjects rank somewhere about a raging case of the clap or a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck on the list of things that Lucifer Morningstar enjoys. "Can't that, you know, wait for morning?"

Chloe gives him a look.

"Right. Sorry, sorry, my mistake. Talking, of course. Just how I wanted to spend the evening, rather than, say, having passionate sex in gratitude for our reunion." He heaves a sigh. "Don't I even get some for heroically rescuing you?"

"Rescuing me?" Chloe cocks an eyebrow. "Do I look like I need rescuing?"

"Actually, no. You seem to have settled in. . . rather well. Disturbingly so, in fact." He regards her for a moment, considering. "Perhaps talking is in order after all."

He follows her to the kitchen, where she pours them some of the wine from the bottle, they sit down at the table in the low light, and she tersely fills him in on everything that's happened since she got down here – not least the sizeable problem of Malcolm, which makes Lucifer jerk upright, tense, and swear. "Bloody hell, that reptile is still crawling around? How many times do we need to saw him in half before he finally bloody stops wriggling? I swear, I'll – "

He starts to get to his feet, as if planning to burst out and track Malcolm down in the hellish mean streets at midnight, and Chloe catches his hand. Their eyes both flick to it, but after a moment, Lucifer huffs and sits back down. "I really have been away too long," he mutters. "I'm sorry you had to clean up my mess, Detective."

"How is that different from what I do every day anyway?"

"You are a cruel woman, you know. Accurate, perhaps. But still cruel."

"You'll get over it." Chloe takes another sip of her wine. "I can. . . I can see why you'd want a vacation. I mean, _other_ people think their jobs suck, but this. . ."

Lucifer stares at the far wall, dark eyes flat and bleak. "Mum's right, you know. Much as I absolutely loathe saying it. She's my only chance to change the rules, and I don't trust her as far as I can throw her, but. . ."

"But she's your mom." Chloe's voice is quiet. "And as much as you just want to slam the door and decide you're free and you're never going to think about her again, you can't. Obviously, what I've had to deal with for my mom isn't the same as what's going on with yours, but. . ."

"What are you talking about? Your mother's delightful. Trade?"

"No thanks." Chloe looks down at her hands. "But like I said. Penelope Decker the actress and Penelope Decker the mother are two different things. You're not the only person who's ever dealt with this, you know. Maybe not exactly the way your family has, but still."

Lucifer laughs shortly and humorlessly, but doesn't challenge her, for once. He sips at his wine without seeming to taste it, which must likewise be a first. When he doesn't seem inclined to say anything, she prods, "How did you get here?"

"Long story. The gist of which, I got myself exorcised. Bright suggestion of your offspring's, actually." His long fingers drum restlessly on the table. "That child is hazardous to my health."

" _Trixie_ suggested that? So what? She just – you just told her about the Devil thing and she – "

"I didn't tell her a thing, and for that matter, I had no intention of recruiting her assistance. She knew already, apparently, just as she did with your Academy Award-winning piece of serious cinema." He gives her one of those tongue-in-his-mouth looks, and it – no matter how many times she's shrugged off his passes at her before – makes her a little hot under the collar. "Children do. You can't shield them forever, Detective."

"Yes, well. I think one of us is qualified to give parenting tips here, and it isn't you." Still, the retort is almost automatic, trying to distract herself. She picks up her wine glass again, even though it's almost empty, and is tempted to pour another. No, she's well aware of what she's like when she gets tipsy, and that is a bad idea for any number of reasons. She has no idea if hell booze is likewise considerably stronger than earth booze, though she doesn't feel any different than she would after just one glass back home. It occurs to her that she's being a little hard on him, what with everything. "Thank you, Lucifer. For coming after me. Back. . . back here."

"You didn't think I'd just leave you here, did you? Same as when I dashingly swept you off your feet and carried you out of that burning restaurant. Couldn't go prancing out alone."

"Yes, but. . ." She looks down, traces a circle on the table. "I'm glad you did."

"Well, then." He coughs. "You're. You're welcome."

Their eyes meet, before either of them can look away. Chloe isn't sure what it does to him, but it certainly does something to her, stronger even than her reaction to him earlier. It makes her hands almost itch with the urge to grab him, to take what she wants, to stop dancing and dodging around each other. It's a well-ingrained habit to hold him at arm's length, but down here, where surviving, where ever getting home, will mean trusting each other like never before, perhaps – just for now, just for tonight – she should give it a rest.

Slowly, she reaches out, waiting to see if he'll cut and run like he usually does when anything approaches an authentic moment. He doesn't, seemingly frozen, as her fingers hover a breath from his cheek in the dimness. Then they curl around his jaw, stroking behind his ear, as she lets out a hard breath and their foreheads touch, noses brushing, sharing breath, lips parting. His hand floats up and tangles in her loosened hair, cupping the back of her neck, which she's not sure if he meant to do; he looks rather stunned by its volition. "Detective – "

"Shh." She puts a finger to his lips. "Just listen to me for once, all right?"

"I always listen to you."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I – "

He's doubtless about to protest again, because not even in the very depths of hell will the Devil stop whining (dread dark lord, this one). She forestalls that by kissing him.

Lucifer makes a strange noise in the back of his throat, his other hand coming up to rake through her hair. He still doesn't have much idea how to kiss like this, but he's certainly proving to be a quick study, and their heads turn, eyes fluttering, as if both of them meant this to be a quick peck and yet can't stop themselves once they've started. Until Chloe's other hand comes up too, until they get quite lost. And so, their eyes closed, they do not see Charlotte watching them from the shadows, smiling faintly to herself, and turning silently on her heel. And by the time they open their eyes, come back to themselves, and coughingly bid each other good night, she is gone.


	5. Canto V

**Canto V**

Amenadiel, Maze, and Trixie arrive back in Los Angeles at the end of an epic trip from hell (and they should know) that featured them getting stuck in Rome traffic, held up at passport control because "Amenadiel Morningstar" (he needed a last name, he just picked the obvious choice) and "Mazikeen del Diablo" do not sound like real people, much less ones who should be traveling with a child, finally cleared to proceed after a lot of talking, missing their flight and their connection in Paris as a result, waiting seven hours on the floor of Charles de Gaulle for the next departure to LAX, and, naturally, discovering when they land that their luggage has vanished God literally knows where along the way. This means that Maze's demon daggers have gone as well, since they are decidedly not on the list of approved carry-ons and she had to put them in her checked bag, and Trixie is exhausted, hungry, missing her mom and Lucifer, and just about to throw an actual tantrum if they don't get the situation in hand ASAP. While Maze buys her an extra-large strawberries n' cream Frappuccino and a frosted cookie, Amenadiel grimly mans up to the unenviable task of locating the lost luggage counter and filing a claim on their itinerant bags. If someone accidentally picks them up somewhere and finds Maze's daggers, as well as whatever deviant sex toys she probably threw in there for good measure –

Once Amenadiel has gotten through that ordeal, the equivalent of several years in Purgatory, with a clerk who clearly thinks he's being funny ("Amenadiel? Really? Were your parents, like, big into Superman? You know, Kal-El?") resisted the urge to shout at him that all angel names end in –el and Superman did that on purpose and he has no idea who he's dealing with, he ducks into the men's room, runs the water, and splashes some on his face and neck, staring dismally at his haggard reflection under the fluorescents. Maze and Trixie will be expecting him to walk out of here with a plan, and he has less than no idea what to do. Shamefully, a part of him is relieved that Lucifer refused his offer to accompany him into hell. Mom's still down there, and the fact is, she came terrifyingly close to getting to Amenadiel completely. Repeating Lucifer's mistakes, the favorite son who fell and turned against his father, who would have led a rebellion to shake the very foundation of the universe. It was only Lucifer himself who recognized the warning signs in time, managed to intervene, slap (entirely literally) some sense into Amenadiel, and get them working together again in time to finally capture Mom and unmask her plans. And Amenadiel repaid him by letting Chloe get dragged into hell. Just great.

At that, Amenadiel catches himself. Heaven is well aware that plenty of this is in fact his fault, but the actual action, and the reason for Chloe's presence in the underworld, is not his. It's their mother's. Lucifer is upset and lashing out and blaming the only family member he has to hand, but Amenadiel is not personally responsible for this particular mess. Just three-quarters of the previous ones, which led up to this.

Wow.

That makes him feel so much better.

He sighs again, and is just about to strain himself to think of some stupid thing to tell Maze and Trixie, when something strange happens. The world. . . slows. Like he used to do to it, but not by his volition, because he can't do it anymore. Bringing time almost to a standstill, the other harried travelers turning into posed mannequins, as at that moment, Amenadiel feels something burning and prodding on his shoulder blades. As he twists around, trying to bat it off, he realizes instead that it's coming from beneath his skin. He feels another jerk, a stinging prick, and in further stupefaction, touches the sharp point of a new black feather as it emerges, followed by another, and then another. Not all of them, just a few, but it's undeniable what they are: his wings suddenly and inexplicably starting to grow back. And just as he's wondering what kind of trick this is, what foul deception, his reflection suddenly vanishes as the mirror fogs over, and somewhere – not aloud, not in his head, but somehow everywhere, down to his bones, to the very gates and boundaries of all existence – he hears a voice speak. It says only one word.

 _AMENADIEL._

"Dad?" Amenadiel jerks his head up, dumbstruck, feeling exactly as you would if your estranged father called out of the blue one day and wanted to talk – half euphoric and teary and disbelieving, half more hurt and suspicious than ever, certain that he must want something else from you, and has no real interest in mending burned bridges. "Dad, is that you?" Idiot. As if there's anyone else it could possibly be.

 _STOP THEM, AMENADIEL._

"Stop who?" He looks around as if expecting a PowerPoint presentation with detailed instructions to drop out of the bathroom ceiling. "Why?"

 _OBEY ME, AMENADIEL. OBEY ME AND COME HOME._

"Tell me who I'm supposed to stop!" His voice is raw, pleading. He can grasp the essentials of what is going on here, if nothing else. Dad is promising to restore his wings, forgive his sins, welcome him back to heaven – if he stops Them, whoever They are. Mom and Lucifer? Dad would obviously have a profound interest in making sure those two don't join forces in hell and go after Him again – but Mom dragged Chloe down there. Surely even Lucifer won't forgive her for that. If nothing else, Amenadiel can be fairly certain that he will only be interested in rescuing his detective and getting the hell out of hell. He's past blaming Dad for his tribulations, at least as much. Now – especially after Uriel – he blames himself.

Fairly certain. Amenadiel can be _fairly_ certain. That's the problem. There's still that small but considerable crumb of doubt. Lucifer hates hell and doesn't want to go back, wants Chloe safe, is especially embittered against Mom after she worked her way into her sons' hearts and then betrayed both of them again, yes – but he _is_ the Devil. The reason he ended up there was due to his family feud with Dad gone very, very bad. Fathers and sons are tricky beasts in the best of times, even when they're not immortal, preternaturally powerful cosmic beings. There is a less-than-zero chance that Lucifer will, in fact, remember why he did everything he did. Try again. It comes down to who Amenadiel trusts more: his saintly father, or his sinner brother. Should be clear. It is, of course, clear as mud.

"Tell me," he begs again, thinking of all the mortals who have asked this very question, and only heard the eternal silence. "Dad, tell me! I want to come home, I want my wings, I – I want to serve you again, but you have to tell me more! Who do I stop? Just tell me that, you don't even need to tell me how! Mom and Luci, or – or someone up here, or. . ." He stops, gripping the edge of the sink so hard that he nearly breaks it off the wall. Realizes that the mist on the mirror is gone, the world has returned to normal speed, that everyone is carrying on as if nothing has happened. He isn't getting any more instructions.

Amenadiel lets out a roar of frustration, pounding the wall, as a weedy geek in oversized headphones, probably on his way to some super-nerd tech conference somewhere, gives him a dour look and a wide berth. No, he cannot go wrecking LAX restrooms, no matter how vastly tempting the prospect is, and he hauls in a deep, uneven breath. Well, at least he does have something to tell Maze, even if it's about the least helpful thing imaginable. With one more curse muttered under his breath ("what the heck" – this _is_ Amenadiel, drinker of Cosmos and observer of eight-PM bedtimes, let's not get too carried away here) he marches out, onward Christian soldiers, as to war. No "as if," in this case, about it.

He finds Maze and Trixie still in the food court, sitting in a booth in the back with Trixie asleep on Maze's shoulder (cranky pseudo-stepmommy Maze is, even if she'd never admit it, completely adorable). Maze glances up at his approach, and frowns at his expression. "What?"

"L-later." Amenadiel could do with one of those pink Frappuccino things himself. "Did you call her father?"

"Yeah. Called Dan." Maze looks smug, as if she too can accidentally be responsible. "He might not even actually kill us." She considers. "Try to kill us, that is. It would be pretty pathetic. Like a chihuahua humping a pool toy."

Amenadiel snorts, despite himself. "Let me take you two back to Lux. I can keep a better eye on you there."

Maze gives him a funny look, not least at the insinuation that she would ever need any help kicking all the available ass in the world, especially from a powerless ex-angel who is also _her_ ex and has made it probably too clear that he's still hoping they get back together. "I'm sure Trixie will sleep tight at the place her mom got dragged bodily into hell. Besides, I don't live at Lux any more, even if you do. I'll take her back to our house." She pauses. "Amenadiel, what's going on? Are the humans going to find our bags before anyone decides to play with my toys?"

"Oh. I – yeah, I hope so." Amenadiel blows out a breath. He almost forgot about the damn bags in the wake of the paternal restroom drive-by. Doubtless Lucifer would have something clever to say about the suitability of Dad popping in to have a chat in the toilets, since all his advice is crap, which makes Amenadiel experience an unexpected and unwelcome pang of missing his little brother. He hopes Lucifer is safe, that he can find Chloe and get out, and prevent Mom from wreaking any more havoc along the way. And if Dad's command means he's supposed to go back to fighting Lucifer, if that's the only way he can get his wings back and be allowed to go home, Amenadiel isn't sure it's worth the price. He tries to control his frustration, reminds himself that at least Dad finally spoke to him directly, he should be grateful for that – but why should a son be grateful if his father speaks two cryptic sentences to him for the first time in a blue moon, pisses off without further ado, and once more puts the burden on him to sort through the mess that's been made of their family? Amenadiel is tired. So very, very tired.

Maze rouses Trixie, and Amenadiel hoists her onto his hip, Trixie drowsing off again even as they walk out to the parking garage and locate Maze's car, which is just as sleek and black and capable of killing a man as you would imagine. Traffic is bad, because of course it is and they haven't suffered enough, and Maze leans on the horn in exasperation, then starts driving up the shoulder. When Amenadiel points out that he's pretty sure this is illegal, he gets the look that reminds him who he's talking to. "Besides," Maze says, ignoring someone in a pickup flipping her the bird (fortunately for them). "I live with a cop. They're not going to arrest me."

Amenadiel is also pretty sure that is not how it works, but bites his tongue. They pull up at Chloe and Maze's house about fifteen minutes later, park, and head in. Once Trixie is put to bed, Amenadiel and Maze go to the kitchen and sit down. It's hard for him – after all, she is not in the least fond of either of his parents for obvious reasons – but he tells her what happened.

When he finishes, Maze is quiet for a long moment. She twists her fingers together and cracks her knuckles, considering. Then she says, "Well. That sucks."

Amenadiel isn't sure if he was hoping for boundless female sympathy, a tender touch, perhaps a heartfelt pledge that he wouldn't have to face this alone (all right, maybe he was, a little) but one does not turn to Maze for such things. "Don't you have any ideas?"

"Who am I, the little demon, to be interpreting the Word of Dad?" Maze looks at him with slitted eyes, as he realizes too late that she is angry. More than that, _furious_. And when Maze gets furious, fur and other items tend to start flying. "After all the trouble we got in because you started listening to one of your parents, now you want to go and start listening to the other one? Two seconds of His literally endless time, and you're running back to kiss and make up? Fine then! Go back to heaven, if it's so important! We don't need you here anyway!"

Amenadiel is stunned, as well as more than a little stung. "What – of course I want to go back! It's my home, Mazikeen, my _home!_ And if there's some chance he'll forgive me – but you wouldn't understand, would you, because – "

"Because I'm a demon?" Maze pushes her chair back and gets to her feet, clearly preparing to continue this argument in much more punch-y ways. "Is that what you were going to say?"

"I – no." It was. Something about how a fell creature of the abyss can never understand an angel's soul-deep longing for the light of the celestial firmament, the way the world looks from heaven on a clear night, the sense of belonging, of purpose, of _peace._ Even as much of a novice as Amenadiel is with relationships, however, he knows that would be suicide. "That's not what I meant. Besides, I didn't say I was going to do what he said!"

"Because you don't even know _what_ he said," Maze shoots back. "Is this really all it takes to win you over again? It's pathetic!"

"You're not one to talk about existing solely to serve someone else! After everything with you and Lucifer – "

Maze stares at him, eyes hell-black, even as Amenadiel belatedly realizes that just as he was congratulating himself for avoiding one potential pitfall, he marched with drums and trumpets straight into the other one. "Let me guess," she says, voice dripping sarcasm. "You didn't mean it that way either."

Amenadiel puts his head in his hands.

The silence remains lethal for another few moments. Then Maze, apparently deciding to throw him a lifeline before his self-inflicted foot injuries get any worse, says, "All right. Fine. Yes, it was like that with me and Lucifer. But that's the point, see? That _changed._ I left. I made my own life. I stopped just hanging around to do whatever dirty work he needed. And look. Un-smited. If a demon can get away from the Devil and have her own life, an angel can get away from God and have his own. And if he's any kind of a decent father – " she shrugs, to say that she clearly doesn't think so, but will entertain the possibility for the sake of being thorough – "that should be exactly what he wants for you. Lucifer and I are still friends, after all. I save his ass when it needs saving, which is a lot, because you know him. If Daddy exists just to control you and order you around and punish you whenever you can't follow his stupidly unclear instructions, he's not your father. He's your jailer. And believe me. I know about that."

Amenadiel doesn't know what to say. He wonders if this is dangerously close to what Mom was telling him, but whereas she was implicitly encouraging him to turn against his father, Maze is just telling him to. . .well, forget him, apparently. Try to help Lucifer and whatever else he needs to do, but on his terms and how he chooses, rather than as a desperate attempt to please the heavenly puppetmaster. But an angel can't just _choose_ to disobey God (well, they can,but that is a whole other can of worms). Amenadiel has been given a command, and it is incumbent upon him to at least do due diligence to find out what. At the same time, he wonders why his father's love, which is supposedly so limitlessly offered to anyone else who asks, seems so withheld from his own family. Shouldn't Dad just. . . let him come home? Not make him earn it back?

These are all things which never would have remotely crossed Amenadiel's mind, in any shape or form, prior to his sojourn in the human world. He wonders if he should do what he thinks is best, and if it happens that that is also what Dad thinks is best, will that count? He gets his wings back, the heavenly command is fulfilled, everyone's happy? Can he be blamed for failing, if he never even knows what he's supposed to stop? It could be someone stealing from the convenience store down the street (not likely, but hey, due diligence) or it could, yes, be making sure his mother and brother don't do something more ill-advised than usual. It's not like he can just pick up the phone and call hell, see what Lucifer's doing down there, if he's suddenly feeling rebellious again. He really, _really_ does not want to fly all the way back to Rome and see if Father Gil is up for round two. It's not even clear if that would be the right thing to do (go to hell, thus stopping whoever's down there plotting mischief) or the wrong thing (leave earth, thus skipping out on the mission here). He has a terrible headache. He probably shouldn't try to drink it away. Unlike Lucifer, he's really not much of a seasoned booze-hound. You know, at all.

"Just tell me this," he says at last. "Do you think it's them?"

Maze hesitates. It's clear that she would have no problem with Amenadiel leaving a smoking Mom-shaped crater if need be, but the thought of Lucifer getting caught in the crossfire is less appealing. After a moment, with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug, she says, "Knowing your dad? Probably. I mean, it's not like he'd bother to talk to you just for you to stop Bob the Plumber."

"I was afraid of that." Amenadiel looks back down. "But I don't even know what to do. If I sit here waiting until they break into the mortal world, it'll be too late. Or if I try something else and it fails, and then – "

"So here's a plan." Maze limbers up onto the table and slides toward him, pushing her chest into his face, spreading her legs, caressing his cheek. "Don't."

Amenadiel swallows hard. Even if he has resolved that he's not going to do anything until they sort out their apparently permanent "it's complicated" relationship status, it's not easy for him to resist. Especially when this, even with obvious ulterior motives, is the closest Maze has let him get to her in weeks. He raises a hand, then pulls it back, clenching it into a fist. "Either way," he says quietly. "Doing nothing isn't an option."

Maze hesitates again, with perhaps a flicker of true disappointment, of vulnerability, of pain. He sees her shoulders go tense. Without a word, she pushes herself back. "Right," she says, in a voice that is far too studied and casual in its coolness. "Much as you say you're tired of your dad's bullshit, one word from him and you're marching off to be his little drummer boy again. You don't trust Lucifer, do you? That's what this is really about. You think he'll just go to hell and turn back into his old self and suddenly decide to – "

"We'd be fools to discount the possibility, Mazikeen." Amenadiel rubs a hand over his eyes. "You know him best. Tell me. Do you really think there isn't the slightest chance that a man whose entire existence revolves around temptation, around giving into it, around bringing it out in others, isn't going to have a single bit of remorse for what he gave up?"

Maze can't fire back on that, despite herself. "So?" she challenges, to cover the moment. "What are you going to do? Kill him for it?"

"You know I don't want to hurt Luci." Amenadiel gets up and opens the cupboards. Poor alcohol tolerance or not, he needs a drink, and is reaching for the wine bottle when Maze smacks his hand down. "But I don't know if I'll have that luxury with the Devil."

Maze clearly wants to burn back with a few choice words. Wants to blame him for being a backstabbing sellout. Wants to take Lucifer's side regardless, no matter what she says about separating herself from him, about moving on. But despite herself, she has – while kicking and screaming – come to care about the human world, to enjoy her human life. If by some incredibly unfriendly twist of fate, by some impossibly bad coincidence – or not so much of one – Lucifer decides to threaten that, she's going to have to help stop him. That's not an easy thing to ask of her. To ask of them. _Obey, and come home._ And that's only Amenadiel's reward. What does Maze get, except to be chucked back into the depths of the abyss from whence she came?

"You know what," she says. "Maybe I was a little too hasty. Pour us a drink."

Amenadiel does. They clink glasses, a morbid and grim-faced toast, and sip. Then she says, sounding as close to uncertain as Maze ever can, "So what _do_ we do?"

"The only thing we can." Amenadiel is thousands and thousands of years old, and this is the first time that he in fact feels every bit of it. "Prepare for war."

* * *

There is not exactly a guest bedroom in the Devil's house. There is a study with a couch, which is where Charlotte has set up shop for the night, and there's the living room with its improved-but-still-not-exactly-cuddly furniture, and there's the master bedroom, and that's it. People do not, after all, usually drop by the heart of hell for casual visits. Chloe wonders dementedly if Lucifer got his pick of the attractive damned souls, whisked them over here for a little infernal nookie – but there's a creepy vibe to that, a distinct "psycho who keeps women locked up in his basement for years" sort of thing, which doesn't fit with what she knows about him. Much of a playboy as he is, all the women he's with enthusiastically want to be with him too, and, well, boinking a really good-looking fallen angel, even if you lived a bad life and are supposed to be punished for it, doesn't seem like _that_ terrible of an eternal fate. Besides, that might make it awkward to torment them later, and even Lucifer doesn't have that short of a memory. So far as anything. . . carnal. . . went down here, then, he was probably having freaky sex with Maze. Chloe has avoided prying too far into their relationship, mostly because she doesn't really want to know the details, but she supposes it's better than a revolving door of dead evildoers. God. The stuff she is thinking about these days is absolutely _psychotic._

The reason the topic has come up, unavoidably, is due to the question of where both of them are going to sleep. Lucifer can be quite gallant where she is concerned, but he also just went through a painful exorcism and a long trip down the Styx, and doesn't want to bunk down on the floor if his own bed is there and available for use. Chloe likewise quite enjoys his bed, and isn't going to volunteer to be exiled from it to the rock-hard patent leather cushions of the living room. The bed is huge, it's not like it can't fit both of them as well as a dozen hairy dwarfs from a Romanian traveling circus (you'd hope not, but you never know who's down here). They did, you know, just kiss, so it's also not as if they find each other so chemically repulsive that they could not possibly manage a night without falling out to avoid each other. It's perfectly obvious that they should just share the damn thing and shut up, but then, well. That would be too easy.

Finally, however, both of them are too tired to put off the question any longer, Lucifer makes a production of offering the bed to her, Chloe is tempted to remind him that she was actually here first and she should be offering it to him (it _is_ his house, she can't forget that) and both of them satisfy the matter by casually realizing that they should split it down the middle. Technically, she has slept in his bed when he was around before, when she turned up drunk on his doorstep that night at Lux, but she's not sure where _he_ slept that night. He said she stripped off and hogged the bed, so what, he crashed on the couch? Sat there and took pictures? Lay on the side and patiently hoped she didn't knock him off?

At any rate, her head is racing far too much for bedtime as she slides beneath the covers, and he does so on the other side. She was briefly afraid he was going to announce some proclivity for sleeping naked (this is Lucifer, he probably sleeps naked most of the time) but he is wearing black silk pajamas, because of course he is. He settles in on his back, looking up at the ceiling, as she curls up on her side. She's being a total idiot. She just told him she was interested in exploring something more, but. . . hell is not the place, or the time. When they get back to Los Angeles, they can go out on a date, to dinner or something. You know, the way normal people would start a relationship, even if "normal" absolutely in no sense of the word encompasses anything they are doing or have done. But still.

Chloe takes a while to relax, even as Lucifer, who's been through a lot recently, falls asleep almost immediately. His long dark lashes curl against his cheek, and he looks. . . well, "innocent" isn't the right word, but, well, almost young. There's a faint line linked between his brows, as if he hasn't let go of his troubles in sleep. What does the Devil dream about? She wants to curl up closer to him, rather than camp on her cold and empty side of this football-field-sized bed, but reminds herself that he needs his rest. Especially with everything that's coming.

She turns away, pulls the covers up, and gets comfortable. It takes her a while – a long while – but she finally turns off her head long enough to drift under.

She's woken, she has no idea how much later, by Lucifer screaming.

It sears through her as if she's touched a live wire, as she comes awake and rolls toward him all in one motion, as he's sitting almost upright, eyes unseeing, still screaming. Whatever the Devil dreams of, it apparently is as fiendishly unpleasant as you would imagine, even as Chloe catches hold of his shoulders. "Lucifer. Lucifer! Wake up. It's just a nightmare, okay? It's just a nightmare."

He jerks, gasps heavily, blinks, and wakes up, in time to see her peering concernedly into his face, which gives him another start. He scrubs his ringed hand over his face. "Detective."

"Are you all right?" Chloe keeps hold of him. Despite the fact that she's obviously concerned for him first, sweaty and disheveled, with a button or two undone on his pajama shirt, is admittedly a good look on him. (Nearly everything is, but still.) "What were you dreaming about?"

"Nothing." He tenses, pulling back slightly. "I just – well. You're fine, that's all that matters. Unavoidably stuck down here, yes, but fine. I, ah. You should go back to sleep."

"Lucifer, come on." She wonders if there will ever come a day when both of them feel like sharing at the same moment, not this ever-present back-and-forth, push-and-pull, trying to get the other to open up. "Talk to me."

His eyes flicker briefly to hers, then away. If Charlotte comes bursting in right now, Chloe is going to. . . well, she hasn't decided on anything that sounds like sufficient punishment for her, and she knows she's going to have to be careful about it. After a very long moment, Lucifer finally says, "It was about my brother. Uriel."

"Oh?" Chloe has heard rumors about this. She knows that he was supposedly in town and that Lucifer was convinced he had it out for her, but then as far as she knew, that was over. Lucifer didn't tell her anything afterward either, just went into the aforementioned total meltdown, and it was finally Maze who told her that Lucifer had killed him. Which, frankly, seems like a bit of an overreaction to a family fight, but then, this was clearly a lot more serious than bickering over who gets to be the car in the Monopoly game. Maze was evidently there when it happened, so her word can be trusted, but she hasn't told Chloe anything else. "Look, Lucifer, I don't know exactly what went on, but. . ." She hesitates. She's a homicide detective. She doesn't want to tell someone that going stabby-stabby is the best way to solve their problems, but what after Lucifer has already told her about his deal with Dad, back at Lux before everything went pear-shaped, she has an odd feeling that he wouldn't have resorted to this unless something much bigger was at stake. Something such as, say, her. He did, after all, follow her around, snatching sandwiches out of her hands and asking twenty times if her car accident was really an accident, on the slightest chance that his brother really had descended out of heaven to bump her off.

Chloe feels cold. Doesn't know if she wants to ask, just because there is really no way of properly answering that, or dealing with the answer once you have it. Even knowing what he did for her because of Malcolm. . . that time he died. This time he's killed. There's a difference, and she knows he feels that. She can't say a word, just lifts a hand to lightly brush the backs of her fingers along his unshaven cheek. Bites her lip, shifting slightly to face him, even as his hands seem tempted to venture up onto her hips. No. Still not the time. Not the place.

"I'm sorry," she says at last, quietly. "If you. . . want to say anything else about it, I'm listening."

Lucifer's expression flickers again. They are close together, the quilts wrapped around them both, and she is still touching him, almost sitting on his lap. She sees his throat quiver as he swallows, looking away. "Really, Detective. You should sleep."

Chloe hesitates, unsure if she should push any further. She knows it can't be easy to keep baring such gut-wrenching secrets, such drastic actions, especially as it makes it clearer and clearer – to both of them – what the truth that lies at the heart of it is. And that makes it a little silly to think about whether they'll go on an ordinary date, or have Netflix night (actually Netflix, not, you know, _Netflix,_ although frankly that isn't off the table either), because how do you have a casual relationship with somebody who will shake the pillars of the universe, barter his soul to God and kill the guardian of the gates of heaven, to save your life? You do what – pick up the check at a nice restaurant to say thanks? She's always known that Lucifer likes her, likes her a lot, and she's played with that a bit, the same way any woman does when pretending not to enjoy the attention of a very handsome and charming man. But this is beyond that. This is. . . fundamental. This is changing time and space. Defying, or ending, divinity. It's terrifying.

Chloe wets her lips, glancing down, even as the tension continues to hang heavy in the air. His hands still ghost just above her hips; he can practically span her waist. She edges forward, unable to stop the thought of what would happen if she leaned in and kissed him again. She knows perfectly damn well what would, and that. . . well, she's not going to sleep with him ( _if_ she sleeps with him, that annoyingly pedantic voice in her brain puts in) to thank him for straight-up icing a dude on her behalf, especially his brother. Breach of professional ethics, considering their day job. She can't even be sure that he _did_ kill Uriel for her.

It's late, and dark. Dark as midnight in hell, quite un-metaphorically. Her hand is still on his face.

Another voice, one she's never experienced or even thought of when it comes to Lucifer, pipes up at this point. Here she is, sitting with the Devil in his bed in his realm, after she's had a day or so of not-entirely-badly running the place. They still need to get rid of his conniving mother somehow, even if she's temporarily weaseled her way back into her son's good graces, or at least a stay of execution. There is undeniable opportunity. Chloe can do whatever she wants here, and Lucifer will follow her lead. She's practically the queen of this place, especially if he's not interested in taking the job back. Give him what _he_ wants, he won't ask questions. Then she can deal with this Mom problem, and everything else, however she likes. Or –

What? What the hell? Where did _that_ thought come from? No, no, she is not leading Lucifer by the nose (or other parts of him) to bamboozle him into letting her handle Mom alone. This is a terrible idea and will get her killed, as well as destroying the trust between them. Why would she even think that? It disquiets her enough that she slides quickly away from him, rolling back to her side of the bed, and can't help but see the flicker of hurt that crosses his face. Of course, he thinks she's disgusted, that there's no way she can excuse this. That he is, in fact, a monster.

Chloe remains irresolute for several moments, feeling cowardly, listening to him breathe behind her. He hasn't lain back down, as if he'll just sit up by himself and watch the night pass. He must have spent a lot of them – countless, literally – like that, as surely the Devil doesn't need much sleep in the ordinary course of things. But after he's spent enough time in the human world, and being human around her, he's gotten into the habit.

She sits up again, reaching for his hand, and squeezes it. "Hey," she says softly. "Lucifer. It was just a dream. Come on, huh? Sleep."

He glances sidelong at her, startled and reticent and shy all at once, which one might recognize as a combination of three things that Lucifer Morningstar never is. Then he sighs, letting himself back down, even as she edges back to her side again and clenches a fist, trying to fight down that weird urge. If it was just about sleeping with him – well, of course she's been tempted, she is a woman and she has eyes. But that was different. About controlling him. Deceiving him. Something it's not all right to do to anyone, much less someone you care for that much, who has already done what they have for you. Just an aberration. Understandable side effect of this place. She'll get over it. But for now, definitely better not to confuse or aggravate the issue.

She gets back to sleep, eventually, and is woken by the scent of something delicious. She sniffs without opening her eyes, wondering if Lucifer has made her breakfast in bed – that's rather adorable, even something for the normal-relationship ledger (which they of course are not even in yet). But then there's a knock on the door, it opens, and a voice says cheerily, "Good morning, you two! Breakfast?"

At that moment, Chloe's eyes shoot open, as do Lucifer's, as they sit up and snatch the covers to their chests in unison – even though they are, of course, fully clothed, distinctly on their own sides of the bed, and not doing anything remotely incriminating. Charlotte is facing them with two platefuls of perfect waffles (hell's power must have helped in this regard, because Chloe is pretty sure she couldn't cook human food worth a damn when she was on earth) as if it's totally normal to walk in on your son and his not-quite-girlfriend in bed in the morning to see if they want some nosh. Lucifer, for his part, is sputtering like a broken carburetor. "Mum – I don't – I have _no_ idea how you can possibly think this is – get! Shoo. Shoo! Bloody hell!"

Charlotte looks confused. "Honey, I'm trying to be supportive of your relationship. Remember?"

Lucifer rakes both hands across his face. It would almost be amusing to see the Devil reduced to total impotent speechlessness by the shenanigans of someone even more naively inappropriate than he is, especially when that someone is his mother, if it wasn't for said mother being as sly and dangerous as she is. Whatever angle she is playing right now, this "you kids need some snacks? Condoms?" _Mean Devils-_ mom act is certainly part of it, and Chloe entertains a fond hope that this will induce Lucifer to just kick her out. Instead he gets up, whisks the tray out of her hands, spins her around, marches her out, shuts the door behind her, and leans against it, looking hounded. "I've made a grave mistake."

"Yeah," Chloe says, as offhandedly as she can. "Since, you know. She did try to kill me."

"Yes, we can all agree that is not a star for the Walk of Fame." Lucifer picks up the waffle, sniffs it, and tosses it aside, evidently not willing to risk it. "But she's also the only soul to ever have escaped hell on her own. We. . . might be able to use her advice."

"Really? Only her? What about you? Can't we just leave however you did last time?"

Lucifer looks evasive. "It took my wings last time. And quite a bit of other preparation and trickery, since if it was that simple, I would have put in my pink slip and strolled out ages ago. It's like unlocking a door, if you will, and the key burned up after I used it. The Morrigan weren't entirely – "

"The Morrigan." Chloe feels suddenly as if she's slept through her alarm, rolls out of bed, and starts toward the bathroom. "Shit. I have to get to work."

"To _work,_ Detective? Down here?"

"Yeah. Remember what I told you last night? About how I was filling in?"

"I was under the impression that was a one-off, caused by my unavoidable absence. You have no obligation to keep doing my dirty work – and besides, you said bloody Malcolm turned up yesterday! He's likely just skulking about, waiting for you to come back! This is – no, I forbid it. It's far too dangerous."

Despite herself, Chloe's annoyed. "And who says you get to make that choice for me?"

Lucifer looks at her as if she's grown an extra head. "The Devil does still make the rules in hell, darling. Extended playing of hooky or not."

"Do you? Because I feel like the old Lucifer would have burned in here, cleared your mom out, roasted a few sinners, made a dumb joke or two, and be throwing the underworld's version of a sick raver by now. Besides, there are still a lot – a _lot –_ of people in that line. It's not fair to make them keep waiting and waiting. I need to help them."

Lucifer looks at her even more strangely. "They're not people, and you're not helping them. They're the souls of _former_ people who were, let's put it frankly, complete and utter cock-ups in life. And you're not sending them on to any sort of peaceful hereafter. Eternal torment. Eternal. Torment. That's how Dad set up this bloody place! I don't want you doing that, Chloe! I don't want you to _ever_ have to do that!"

"Somebody has to! And if you're not – "

"A job that's not yours, that in no stretch of the imagination should be yours, and yet you still can't stop working, can you? Do you think you'd suddenly cease to be yourself if you did? This is hell, Detective. Hell! It's not whatever strange bloody half-version of Los Angeles you've turned it into, some almost-home where you can settle down and live! You're a human! You don't belong here!"

"Oh? But all the other dead ones do?"

"That's different." Lucifer wracks a hand over his face, as if silently talking himself down from picking her up, throwing her over his shoulder, and trying to barge out of here right now. "I've never had a choice about whether any of them were down here, but I do with you! And I have to get you out! I have to get you home!"

Chloe is speechless. She's never heard him sound like this, completely raw and begging, furious and frightened, as if he's lived in this place for thousands and thousands of years and yet no longer knows it, as if all his tumultuous feelings about his uncertain homecoming have poured into the fact that he simply cannot protect her from the one thing he knows too well as an enemy – her own self. And when Lucifer can't protect her, it immediately sets him off in a tizzy like a spinning top, anxious and flustered and fragile. This must be that times a hundred.

"Look," Chloe says at last, struggling to keep her voice even. "I appreciate your concern, I really do. But – "

"Appreciate it, do you? That means you'll just turn about and ignore my advice as usual? You can get away with that on Earth, Detective. It's your world, you know how it works. Down here, this – this place, it's mine. And you don't. You don't! One bloody day as the Director of Damnation fill-in doesn't make you an expert! I know you hate asking for help, even when you should, but maybe once! Might not be the worst idea!"

"Wow, it's rich of you to blame _me_ for not asking for help, Mr. Look How Fine I Am! So then figure out how to get us out of here! I'll do everything I can, but if it's your _mom_ you want to go trusting – "

"Oh, this is about my mother, is it?"

"Yes, it's about your mother! You know! The reason we're both actually down here! Or did you forget that when you let her borrow your couch and cook us breakfast?"

Lucifer's face is dead white, eyes pitch-black. For a moment – for a split second Chloe desperately wants to take back – she is actually, genuinely afraid of him. It's gone the next instant, and he immediately backs down, but it remains, poisoning the air between them with its dark ripples. "I know, Chloe," he says, trying likewise to wrest his own voice back to control. "I know what she did to you was unforgivable. I haven't forgotten it. I haven't forgotten who she really is. But as you said yourself last night, it's not as simple as throwing her straight out again."

It could be, Chloe wants to say. There's a cage that held her for however many thousands of years. Throw the bitch back in there with double the guard demons, and let her rot. Even if this is an utterly terrible thing to ask someone to do to their mother, especially for the second time, there has to come a point where Charlotte/Lilith's crimes surpass any reasonable claim she has to Lucifer's filial affection. So Chloe thinks, at least. But if dragging her down here wasn't quite enough, the mind boggles as to what it might actually take. The kind of cataclysm there's no coming back from. And nobody, least of all Lucifer, should underestimate the literally eternal damage that can be wrought from that kind of war.

Chloe doesn't say this, however. Instead she turns around, goes into the bathroom, takes a shower, and gets dressed. Lucifer might still be angry at her, but he cannot restrain his jaw from dropping when she emerges in full Queen of the Night splendor – no high heels and LBD today, but black leather jacket, skirt, and ankle boots, eyeliner and red lipstick, necklace and earring studs with glittering bits of onyx. As he stares at her, it's clear that he's wrestling with his unambiguously stated desire to get her out of here at once, over and against the fact that she _does_ look like she belongs here. Looks beautiful and powerful and capable. As if, just for a moment, the thought has also crossed _his_ head that perhaps they don't have to leave. Stay down here, rebuilding and refashioning hell to their liking, running it together, ruling their kingdom for all time. Will she age if she stays here? It's outside normal space and time, and the souls that come down here don't get older and die again. There was the way the Morrigan said she was "still" human, as if implying that she eventually might not be. She could be immortal too, as long as she lives down here. The idea of death has always terrified her. Chloe Decker, Lady of Hell. Not exactly a title she was expecting to put on a business card, but still one with a certain. . . allure.

"Det. . . Detective." Lucifer finally succeeds in shutting his mouth. "You look. . . ah. . ."

Chloe can't resist a slight preen. "Oh," she says breezily. "This is nothing."

With that, they walk out to the kitchen, where Charlotte glances up with an expression of solicitous maternal concern. "Is everything all right? I heard shouting. Can I help?"

"We've got it covered." Chloe gives her a cool, closed-mouth smile. "Thanks."

"You've got on such a. . . different outfit." Charlotte regards her up and down. "Well, I couldn't help overhearing a bit of it, and honestly, Chloe, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be allowed to do the job, at least for a little while longer. You're clearly good at it, and besides, when do men get to make decisions for us?" She slips her a conspiratorial wink. "Maybe I brought you down for the wrong reasons, jealousy and rage and greed, but you're meant to do genuine good while you're here. Wouldn't that be something?"

Chloe is caught off guard. After all, she was convinced that Charlotte would hate the very idea of her presuming to sit on Lucifer's dark throne (or, you know, nice office chair) and deal out death and judgment in his place. That she would immediately recruit Malcolm to help take her down, challenge her for the rule of hell and raise a dread army to lead against heaven. Which she is. . . probably still doing somehow, but this is a curveball. "So. . . what? Keep me busy while you sneak around and make your own plans? Isn't that convenient?"

"Oh, I won't be alone. I'll have Lucifer to keep an eye on me." Charlotte smiles lovingly at her son. "So much time down here together, and you never got the chance to give me the real tour. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"What? So you can sniff out all the secrets and hidden trapdoors and skeletons in the closet – I mean it, don't open that closet, they'll get you? I don't bloody think so, Mummy."

"I just want to see where you lived." Charlotte is undaunted. "Remember what I said about changing the rules? Letting you go home with her? We can never do that unless we know where to start."

"And this has the added benefit of letting _you_ tag along with us back to the mortal world, doesn't it?"

"I'm over the mortal world, darling. I had my little fun – decidedly little, believe me – and now I'm bored. I see absolutely no reason to return, but if that's what you want, I can't stand in the way of your happiness, even if it's not with me. After all, isn't that what any good parent wants for their children? To grow up and leave home and live their own life? As I've said, I know I've made mistakes, I _know._ Please don't keep punishing me, Lucifer. That's what your father wants for you. Do you think _he'd_ ever let you go to be your own man? That's what I want for you now. It's taken me a while to figure it out, but I've finally gotten there. Please. Please, honey. Let me try." She grips hold of his jacket, eyes glittering with tears. "I know Chloe wants me to leave, and she'd have every right – if it's too painful, I'll just go back to my cage, I'll – "

"I. . . no, Mum. You don't have to go back to your cage. You've spent enough time there, we all know that." Lucifer looks somewhat vexed, but doesn't move to disentangle himself. "After all, if what Dad bloody wanted was for you to be back in hell, you _are_ in hell. See? QED. No way to say I've reneged on my deal. As I said, you can stay here, _if_ helping us is what you really want."

"Of course it is, my Lucifer. Of course it is." Charlotte takes his face in her hands and kisses his forehead. "Now, everyone's got a big day ahead of them. Chloe has to head to work, and you and I have to go start our hunt for how we're going to get you two home. Did you eat my breakfast? Humans like those things."

Lucifer frowns. "And when did we decide that Chloe was doing my job, exactly?"

Charlotte glances at Chloe. "It's your choice. Do you want to go?"

Chloe hesitates. She's aware that listening to Charlotte is probably a bad idea, she can see the expression on Lucifer's face, she's still not in the least convinced that letting the two of them kick around together is a good idea, all of it. . . but the fact remains. She _wants_ to go back. She's wanted it since she left yesterday. Whether it's helping people or damning souls, whether or not Malcolm's there or whoever else might be, no matter what, whatever she has to face. She has never felt so powerful and strong and real as she did then, so meaningful. She chooses whether they fry, whether they go onto Purgatory and make amends and then, possibly, one day, to heaven. Respected. Feared. _Rising._

"Yeah," she says. Turns on her heel, and grabs her jacket. "I'm going."


	6. Canto VI

**Canto VI**

 **Long, Long Ago**

 **Day 1**

Samael has no idea where he is.

There is nothing around him to every side but endless, swirling mist. There is no apparent source of light, but nor is it completely dark, just some cold, eerie blue glow. He is breathless and staggered and barely able to stand, tattered with wounds, back burning where his wings flutter like sooty sails. Not even his brother Raphael, the healer, could put this back together. His last memory is of falling, _plunging,_ down and down and down, deeper than the deepest sea, on the earth or under it, falling until there is no crack, no wedge, no spare inch of space he has not glimpsed on his way past at great speed. _Always wanted to get out and see the world, that was you._ Now here he is – wherever here is. The ultimate end. There is nothing to see. Nothing, no hint of anything or anyone, moves in the shadows. Desolate does not even begin to describe it.

"Hello?" He calls out by reflex, not sure he wants the answer, or that he'd be happy to see anyone else who might be down here in this bleak prison with him. Rage bubbles up in him again at the thought, simmering behind his eyes, until he can feel nothing else but it. They threw him out. They all threw him out, or at least they sat on their hands and let it happen. Dad, Mum, Amenadiel (no, he's done with Amenadiel, he's done with hoping for anything from the big brother he once wanted so desperately to be like) and the rest. His sisters, Azrael and Gabriel, were the only ones who tried to put in a good word on his behalf, and once it became clear that the flaws were fatal, past mending, they took themselves out of the middle, and let whatever might happen, happen. Part of him can't blame them. The rest of him hates them even more.

With no other apparent option, Samael starts to walk. His wings are too burned to fly, and he doesn't even know where he'd fly _to._ Azrael's voice echoes in his head like a mockery. _Stop, Sam. Stop. Ask Dad to forgive you, and he will. It's not too late. It's not –_

"Shut up," he growls aloud, knuckling his fist across his eyes. "Shut up, shut up, shut _up."_

There is so much mist everywhere. So much heaviness. So much earth, so much _darkness._ He is a creature of sky and light and air. He's never been in a place like this. His home is _(was, was)_ called Heaven, and its delights and its beauties are beyond compare. He thinks of playing as a child on an endless green field, usually with his sister Gabriel and his brother Raphael, the two closest to him in age. Amenadiel and Michael and Azrael were too old for them, and Uriel was a tagalong pain in the arse. Sariel was always too preoccupied with his books and studies (he has recently decided that he wants to be called Metatron, bit of a stupid name in Sam's opinion, but there you have it) to get outside and play, and Barachiel was busy cozying up to Dad and his bloody new project of humanity. The one that started all this trouble.

Samael looks down at his battered hand, and discovers that he still has hold of it, the one thing he was clutching onto when he was struck. It's a withered, blasted, but not entirely burned branch, a sprig from the Tree of Knowledge, in Dad's little zoo called Eden. The one which he went to have a stroll in, and befriended a woman named Eve, a human woman, married out of unavoidable necessity and some bizarre decree of Dad's to a total waste of space named Adam. What happened next, well –

Samael picks up his pace, groaning at the effort. He's never felt this before, not this pain. He heals, he's supposed to heal. Why is there still such blazing agony in his face, and his back, and his legs, and his wings, and every other part of him? How can he possibly be so far away from the light of heaven that nourishes its children back into sustenance and health? All it takes is sitting on a cloud on an endlessly clear night, with the entire reach of the universe's stars spangled to every side, across every arch and sweep of the sky, and he's made new.

There is no sky down here. There are no stars. There is no light. There is nothing except him. And he is – whatever he is now, an angel thrown out of heaven cannot be an angel, surely –

Sam is laboring badly, feet cracked and bleeding, by the time he finally reaches some flatter, wetter bit of ground, with a few rivulets of water trickling through the damp earth. He's so thirsty that he falls on hands and knees and licks at it desperately, tasting grime in his mouth, grimacing and spitting. Then he lets out a heavy sigh and collapses, wings matted and sprawled beneath him, staring up at the endless black void that is the strange roof of this world. Maybe this is just a test. Maybe one of his siblings is going to come fetch him soon, decide that he's gotten the point, and now he can come home. He's burningly bloody angry at them all – especially Mum, he told her everything, he was her sweet boy, her kindest and sweetest, her favorite, confided in her as his relationship with Dad broke down, and then she stood by and did nothing – but if they come soon, he decides, he'll forgive them. Family, eh? That's what you do.

He tries to block out his last sight of Amenadiel, holding the flaming sword at the gates of Eden. _Go, Sam. Go. You're never coming back here. You've transgressed Father forever. I'm sorry, but you've made your choices. Now you get to face the consequences._

What a bloody pompous ass Amenadiel is. Spent all that time looking up to him, and for that.

If Amenadiel shows up here to get him, he'll punch him, probably repeatedly. Yell at him a lot too, because he deserves it. But despite everything, Amenadiel _is_ his big brother, the oldest. Sorted out their squabbles, patiently taught the younger kids how to fly (there were a lot of comical attempts as they first got the hang of their wings) made sure they didn't get too carried away with cloud racing, and took them on adventures. Heaven, after all, is a vast and fascinating and ever-changing place. They've lived there all their lives (until now) and barely seen a corner of it. Mum thought they shouldn't stray so far from home. Back when Mum and Dad were happy, and not arguing. Arguing all the time. As Amenadiel sat up nights with his siblings to tell them stories, so they wouldn't have to hear their parents going at it thunder-and-lightning, soaking the mortal world below. How Sam liked to crawl into bed with his sister Azrael, because she was older and smart and cool and independent, but she had a soft spot for him, and let him sleep curled up next to her if he was ever too lonely. In such a large family, after all, one is not used to being by oneself. There are always siblings to play with, fight with, fly with, get into mischief with, hate and be massively annoyed with, but in the end, still love more than anything. That still has to matter. He's still their brother, their Sam. They have to be coming for him.

They have to be.

After an unspecified interval of panting and staring at the sky does nothing to alter his present dreary circumstances, Samael rolls over with another grunt of pain. He looks at the broken, burnt branch of the Tree of Knowledge, can still hear his last argument with Dad playing in his head. That it was never fair to ask the humans not to eat the apple, to know who they were, to make their own choices, even if it meant he didn't get to keep them as his amusing, oblivious little pets. Cared more for Eve than he ever imagined he would, for a mortal creature of mud and bone so little like him. They used to walk in Eden at sunset, and talk. He offered her the apple, sure, told her what it did, but he never forced her to take a bite. Then when she did, and Adam did, and that gormless wastrel blamed her, and Dad found out, and –

Samael rubs his temples, inhaling deeply and raggedly through his nose, when he feels a sudden jolt of even stronger pain, and his fingers come away wet and red. He frowns. He's confused, and rather scared. Is this. . . _blood?_ Angels have it, but it's not something one, you know. Sees. It comes out of the humans much more easily, fragile breakable creatures that they are. Has something more than just his location changed? Has he –

Sam pulls himself over, staring down into the pool of dark water below him. For a moment the ripples are too indistinct to see clearly, but then they do. They settle.

The person – the _thing –_ looking back at him is no angel. Not even human.

It is a monster.

Sam rears back with a muffled scream, splashing at the water as if it is the one lying to him, rolling to the other pool and looking at it instead, only for it to tell the same tale. His face – he's – oh god, oh god, oh god, oh heaven, what has happened to his _face?_ It's burned and red and hideous, the flesh scarred and charred away, until there is only this left, this monstrosity, this demon, this –

The word suggests itself to him, even though he's never heard it before, and he knows in a terrible instant that that is what he is –

 _Devil._

He lies there gasping, gulping air, too stunned to weep, too disbelieving, closing his eyes hard and then looking again, in case it's only some twisted illusion, some lie or dream or trick, and not really him after all. Every time, it's still that creature looking back at him, bloodshot eyes running with silent tears that sting and burn as they roll down his ruined face. And it's then, in that singular, horrible moment, that Samael realizes that his siblings are not coming for him. Nobody is coming for him. He is no angel. He cannot go home. More than that, he has been profoundly and eternally transformed into something new, something terrible. _Fallen angel,_ yes, and that is strange, that is bad, that is wrong enough. But more than that. _Devil. Devil. Devil._

He struggles to all fours again, clutching the branch of the tree. Plunges it into the black volcanic soil at the headwaters of the river with one massive, mighty stroke, driving it in several feet deep, twisting it, giving it root. Very well, then. He will regrow his own Knowledge here, and nourish it with these dark waters, not the light of the celestial stars. With anger, and hate, and pain, and grief, and emptiness, and he can feel the dark threads coiling out, more than just his own emotions, but something stronger. It is building and changing and raising this place, this dread castle, and at once, he knows what to call it. Not heaven. Its very and fundamental opposite.

Hell.

He thinks dementedly of Dad, telling his pet to name the animals in Eden.

He names the animals now, but none of them are here. The beasts are only within.

And in that matter, in that case, he cannot, he _will_ not be Samael any more. He made fun of Sariel for changing his, for wanting to be Metatron, scribe and scholar. But now he sees the allure of it, reinventing yourself on your own terms, away from whatever pitiful little word or limits used to define you before. Very well. Dad wants to cast him down here, into darkness and squalor and filth? He will defy him. He will defy him in every moment and every waking breath.

His mother's voice whispers tenderly in his head, as she tucks him into bed, back when he is young and the world is right and he is home. _My Lightbringer. My Morningstar._

Light. Light. Light.

The one thing he's lost for good, will never shine down here, will never strike his ruined face. He will never wake on the blush of a new sunrise, and greet a new day.

"Lucifer," he says out loud, not knowing where it comes from, only that it fits. His burned lips twist into a savage smile. _"Lucifer."_

He rather likes it.

Everything burns.

* * *

It takes several – days? Are there days down here? Nights? Any notional passage of time at all? He can't tell – but the newly named Lucifer begins to warm, so to speak, to hell.

The new Tree of Knowledge is growing quickly, and the rivers – there are five of them, and he creates their natures as such, wrath, woe, fire, forgetfulness, and lamentation – run ever deeper and stronger. He builds a home for himself, after some work – not much, but better than nothing. His refinements improve as his power grows, as he feeds on the strange, distorted energy that permeates this place. He is utterly alone, but he does not care. He's had his fill of company, of family, of friends, of everything. All lost. All gone. Good bloody riddance.

He is alone, that is, until he isn't.

When the first mortals arrive, Lucifer is confused and annoyed at their presence and what he's possibly bloody supposed to be doing with them. What are they, spies from his dad to see how he's faring down here, if he's shut his mouth and taken his lumps like a good lad? But it soon turns out that they're not living mortals, they're dead ones (death was strange enough to wrap his head around, the first time he heard of the idea – how could anyone not simply live forever?) Their souls, some strange lingering imprint of them, and it takes Lucifer a few batches of unwelcome guests until he realizes they're all, well, total berks. Did bad things in life and didn't fix it before they died. Some of them regret it and some of them do not, but they're all here anyway. And it's then when Lucifer starts to grasp what exactly is going on.

Dad has not only chucked him out of the house for questioning his stupid rules and meddling with humanity, he's now decided to send the fuckups among them to Lucifer to dish out their karmic dues. _You broke it, you bought it._ You want humans to have free will, to make choices, to make _bad_ choices? Very well then, you get to mop up the consequences. If you just hadn't made Eve eat that apple (not what happened, _not what happened,_ but he has a feeling that will get instantly and permanently lost in whatever story goes down the ages) then you wouldn't be stuck doing this dirty job. Hope you're settling well into your new place. Mum sends kisses.

Lucifer decides then that he won't punish them, just to be contrary. They're all shut up down here, they probably hate Dad just as much as he does, and he's so lonely he can't stand it. He'll befriend them. He's learned by now how to restore his face to an image of its old angelic beauty, a mask, so they – and more importantly, he – don't have to see it every day. But even with that, his efforts get nowhere. They don't want to be friends with him, of course they bloody don't. They don't care what he _looks_ like, they know what he is inside. They fear him. They hate him.

Lucifer begins to discover that it is, in fact, rather satisfying to find out what they did wrong in life. Make them spit it up, whether or not they were planning to tell him, and devise ingenious torments accordingly. And he knows he's a monster, because he enjoys it thoroughly. You have done something wrong, you must be punished, just as he did something wrong, and is now being punished. That is it, that is justice in a nutshell, that is clarity, that is truth. He's encountered, in passing, the idea of mercy. That you can make a mistake, that you _deserve_ to pay for it, but nonetheless, the person who you hurt decides not to do that. That they forgive you. That they have the motive and the means to punish, but they don't. That they _love._

That is the stupidest thing Lucifer has ever heard.

He begins to expand hell. Builds it into new and different and painful configurations, just to accommodate his ever-increasing influx of souls. He needs help, he can't punish them all himself, and so he goes out to the dark plains, the great abyss, and opens it up. Does a bit of creating himself, see if he can understand what jollies Dad got out of it. Fire and brimstone.

The first creature – demon – he makes is a woman, who looks a bit like Eve. He considers naming her that, but it's too painful to hear it every day.

He calls her Mazikeen instead.

Mazikeen quickly becomes his second-in-command, his trusted right hand, who in turn summons more demons out of the fires to handle their caseload. Some of them have more personality than others. Maze is his, she's special because he did her himself, she's certainly plenty feisty, but she's still his belonging, his servant, who exists to anticipate his needs and fulfil them. She has had no experience or idea of it being otherwise. _Whatever_ he needs. He's rather interested in this human idea of sex, especially since so many people come down here with some hangup or misdeed or guilt on their conscience about it. He tries it with Maze.

It's. . . not bad. It certainly feels nice.

It's excellent for forgetting about things one would rather not think about.

Lucifer decides it's a winner.

Still, though. Their relationship is only infrequently defined by it, because there's much more to do than that. And because, no matter how crowded hell starts to get, there is always more to expand, to keep it running, to make sure every sinner is getting what they deserve, and among all of it, Lucifer remains alone. He lives by himself. He travels around hell by himself. He punishes the worst ones by himself. Maze is there to see he has what he needs, not to provide comfort or company or consolation. Sometimes she does, yes, but it's the same as seeing that he has the whip of fire he wants, because there is only an empty simulacrum of whatever the humans get out of it on earth, why they'll go to such lengths. Clearly, it's a sign of their weakness and their fallibility. Everyone dies anyway. Most people are bloody awful. Why even bother?

And then, his mother arrives.

It's the first time Lucifer has seen any member of his family in centuries, to the point where he's almost started to wonder if they were just a bad dream. Except for Azrael; he sees her sometimes when she deposits the cargo of dead baddies, or at least he used to, but he knows she's supposed to tell heaven what he's doing, and the reminder is too much to stand. So when one of his siblings arrives, and it's not her, it's Amenadiel, and he has their mother, _their mother,_ to be cast into chains and imprisoned for eternity, since apparently Dad has benevolence to spare (or not) for the humans, but none for his wife and none for his son –

Again, Lucifer toys with the idea of _not_ doing what's expected of him, just to confound them. And no matter what he does with everyone else, he doesn't quite have it in him to torture his own mother; what sane person would? But he was closest to her, he _trusted_ her, and she repaid him with silence and complicity and cold indifference. He doesn't have to actively hurt her himself. He just has to stand by and do exactly what she did for him. Nothing.

Amenadiel looks exactly the same, of course. No burned face for him, no twisted, corrupted soul. Far too thumpingly, sickeningly _righteous,_ that one. Busy little bee in heaven, doing Dad's dirty work. Lucifer can't remember how he ever admired him.

(He wants to ask about his sister, Gabriel. The fairest one, the brightest, the loveliest and most radiant daughter of heaven, the sun to Azrael's moon, his beloved childhood playmate. Raphael, always fixing things. Sariel – excuse him, Metatron – and his scribbling. Stubborn little Uriel. Michael, the biggest advocate for his exile, the one who fought him hand to hand before the judgment. Barachiel too busy with the problems of humanity to notice. He misses all of them so much – except Michael, fuck him – that he can't breathe.)

He gives in and asks.

"They're. . ."Amenadiel weighs his words. "Why do you care, Sam?"

Lucifer rears back. "Don't you dare call me that."

"Right, I forgot. You go by a new name these days."

"Hardly new, brother. I've had it for centuries. Where've you been? Oh right. If you're carrying your own mother to hell, you're not exactly the picture of tender familial solicitude. Stupid of me." Lucifer smiles, with teeth. "You can tell them, though I'm sure you don't care, that I'm fine, just bloody fine. Who wouldn't absolutely _love_ this place?"

Amenadiel flinches at the viciousness of the sarcasm. "Lucifer," he says after a moment, the first time he's let this name, this name and everything of the damage and the defiance it represents, cross his lips. "What you do down here, for Dad – I know it's not pleasant, but it's a necessary evil. They've sinned. They have to pay for it."

"Just like me? So we're merry sinners together, is that it?" Lucifer grins again. "Guess Dad doesn't really care about humans so much as all that, does he? Wrecked his own family over it and then discovered it wasn't worth the bother? That must be _so_ disappointing."

Again, ever so slightly, Amenadiel flinches. "Do your duty, Lucifer."

"Doing it fine, no thanks to you and your tedious lectures. Or to Dad. I punish because I am very bloody good at it, and because it's the only satisfaction I get after he chucked me in this miserable coffin. Not, I assure you, for him. Speaking of which. I think it's time for you to flap off home, brother. You never know. What I have might be contagious."

Amenadiel spreads his wings, in a rush of majestic black feathers. "Tell me one thing, Lucifer. If you could, if you had the choice – "

"Don't call me Lucifer in that tone of voice. Bloody unnatural. You sound like a bookie reading out bad odds on a stupid bet." Lucifer smirks dangerously. "Which, for that matter, you may be."

Amenadiel sighs. "Fine then, _Luci._ You're telling me that you wouldn't go home right now, if you had the choice? No matter how much you say you hate Father and everything he stands for?"

"No. I wouldn't go back, actually. Never will. Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven. At least I'm my own man down here, not his scuttling toady. Now. Time to go. I'll give your best to Mum. You know, when she wakes up and wants to know who took her here."

Amenadiel hesitates one more time, then spins on his heel. "Goodbye, Luci."

Lucifer salutes him with exquisite mockery, even as there's a rush, a whoosh, and the place where his brother has stood turns empty. He hears those two words – _Goodbye, Luci –_ rattling in his head, even as he would much rather that he didn't. Feels as if Amenadiel was trying to make it dismissive, the nickname into a belittlement, a jab at anything he thinks he is – but didn't quite pull it off. As if there was, ever so slightly, still a crumb of affection in there, a plea. To shut his mouth. To be a good son. To view this as an honor, a privilege, a duty he should joyously perform for Dad, and a path toward redemption. A chance to come home.

(He thinks of his siblings again. One last time. Their faces fade from view in his mind.)

(Well then.)

(Fuck them.)

(Fuck them all.)

* * *

Lucifer has spent the morning trying to track down Malcolm. Been bloody obsessed with it, in fact, scouring every street and every alley and growing furtherly disturbed at how much the place looks like Los Angeles. It certainly didn't when he left, and he can't even tell if it's because how he now sees home and creates it accordingly, or because of Chloe's influence. He's worried about her, and he can't even pretend he's not. No ordinary mortal would ever just slot in like this and barely miss a beat, be downright eager to get back to such a terrible job – but he and the detective are, whether or not either of them will confess it, so very bloody alike. He can recognize in her, even faster than it happened in him, the adaptation to hell in the first days, the determination to recreate it in your preferred image, to take the devil by the horns and face down what's in front of you, no matter how strange or sordid. Of course she's good at it. Of course she likes the taste of that power, just as he did. And she's a human. She has no defense against it.

Further contributing to his unease of mind is the fact that he can't find Malcolm, which probably isn't too surprising. For all his bluster, the man is a coward, and doesn't want to risk crossing Lucifer when he's at his full strength, without Chloe around to turn him human. Besides, he's undoubtedly still hankering for vengeance against both of them, so he can't take out Chloe first and likewise leave himself with no way to make Lucifer mortal. He needs to go after them at the same time, together, and not miss. Hence, he won't risk it with any half-arsed attempt. Needs to scuttle down his rat warren, and make an airtight plan.

Normally, it should be easy for Lucifer to track down any soul he wants, no matter where they think they can hide from him – the point, after all, is that they can't. Sometimes he stretches it out, enjoys a good hunt, letting the terror build, the flickers of false hope when they think he somehow won't find them – but he always does. This time, however, he can't. It's like being blind on a moonless night, like a bat with no echolocation, who keeps flying into walls. It is utterly and profoundly disorienting, and he keeps trying to hide from Charlotte that it's the case. Even as he has a bad feeling that she's well aware, isn't buying any of his excuses about why he can't just catch the bastard. She already saw him fail to get them home from the Tree of Knowledge, to build the boat on the Styx. Saw him fall prey to the illusion of Chloe's death. Knows that he doesn't have his power. Knows that this place is under his skin.

"Honey," Charlotte suggests at last, offhandedly, after his dozenth failed attempt to sniff Malcolm out. "Why don't you let me try?"

Lucifer glares at her. "I've got it under control."

Charlotte raises an exquisite eyebrow at their presently Malcolm-less surroundings. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes." They're sitting in his car on hell's version of Mulholland Drive, which is far less ritzy and spectacular than the real one; the view below them is only murky smog (not altogether different from Los Angeles on most days, but still) and trash blows eerily across the empty, cracked asphalt. You never have to stop for gas down here, so they can drive as long as they need to, but all his searches, all his checks of the usual hideouts that the damned souls use, have turned up nothing. He wants to get back to Chloe. He needs to get her away from that bloody office. And he really, _really_ needs to find Malcolm.

He hesitates a loathing instant longer, then says, "You don't even know how to drive."

"Oh, I've been watching you. I think I can figure it out." Charlotte smiles. "And if I dent it, I can just put it back to normal. Much easier than on Earth, isn't it?"

Lucifer instinctively wants to argue, but this is a point. With a huff, he gets out of the driver's side as Charlotte slides over, climbs back into the vacated passenger side, and immediately has to grab onto the seat for dear life as she screeches away like a racing champion. Rockets down the hill too fast, past the decaying Hollywood sign that here has half its bulbs burned out and vines growing over it, back down into the blue murk of the unnatural city. Charlotte seems to be following some intuition, the thread of power that he can't tune into anymore, until – bloody hell, of course, of _course_ – they pull up at the Paddock bar, the one that the LAPD precinct fraternized at in life, the one where Malcolm staged his partner's suicide. She parks even more badly than some of his efforts, they get out, and storm inside.

There is a crash behind the bar as someone dives for cover, and Lucifer, snarling, throws his full strength into a leap – even without wings, he thinks for half a second that he's flying. Lands on the far side, grabs for someone, and slams them back up into the dusty glasses rack, as the mirror cracks and smashes on the equally dirty floor. "Got you now, maggot!"

Malcolm sputters, clawing vainly at Lucifer's fingers, even as his face twists into a demented grin. "Hey. . . buddy," he wheezes. "Long time. . . no see."

Lucifer's arm trembles with the need to just fling him headlong into the nearest lake of brimstone, but the fact is, as a previously resurrected soul, Malcolm's case _is_ unique, especially with the Devil being out of hell and unavailable to consign him to his properly merited fate. You can't just kill people down here again in the normal course of things, and the only unassailable way to destroy Malcolm for good is with Azrael's blade – erasing his entire soul in a wink, so there's not even this remnant left. The irony bloody being, of course, that Azrael's blade is back on earth, and they have no damn way to get hold of it.

"That's him?" Charlotte regards Malcolm incredulously. _"That's_ the soul Amenadiel brought back to have a go at killing you? Now, that's just insulting."

"And you. . ." Malcolm waves his fingers at her. "You must be Mama Morningstar. Real good-lookin' lady. Who'd you steal it off of?"

"He's hideous." Charlotte purses her lips disapprovingly. "Well, needs must. Honey, put him down, we'll make sure he doesn't scuttle off one more time. We do have to have someone who knows his way around both hell and the human world, after all."

Lucifer shoots her an even sharper look, as that seems to indicate that she also knows what they need, and what they might have to do. But Malcolm has already traveled back and forth once, and that made him dangerous enough. Twice might render him completely uncontrollable and unstoppable. Besides, any plan that relies on sending Malcolm bloody Graham back into the human world to get hold of the most powerful weapon in existence, with him knowing they'll then use it to wipe him out – _abysmally stupid_ does not even begin to describe it. No, no, no. They'll just have to resurrect another dead soul, someone who has died very recently, as the longer they are in hell, the less resemblance they have to anything remotely human. Send them up to borrow the first useful body, convince Amenadiel to hand over Azrael's blade, and –

No. This is also an incredibly idiotic plan. Could spawn a _second_ Malcolm, when the first is enough bloody trouble. Lucifer has to find some way of contacting Amenadiel himself, even if he can't quite open a portal that would just allow them to leave hell outright and solve this whole stupid mess. And that, horrible as it sounds, would be the easiest to do with Malcolm. Amenadiel brought him back and used him as a tool the first time; Malcolm is tied to his power, his existence. Break the rules of hell again, release Malcolm into a body, send him to deliver a message, and only a message, to Amenadiel. Amenadiel gets the blade, takes it to Rome and Father Gil, has himself and it exorcised, arrives here. They whack Malcolm, use the knife to cut open the fabric of hell, and Lucifer, Chloe, and Amenadiel escape back home. As for Mum. . .

Lucifer hates that he can see this plan so clearly, that it's so ludicrously dangerous, and that he's not coming up with a ton of alternative options. Indeed, even one would be nice. He, Chloe, and Mum are all alive and bodily present here, so they can't just slip sideways between realms the way an incorporeal spirit can. It's not that angels _can't_ return dead mortals to life, as Amenadiel proved; it's just that they _don't._ Breaking that sacred law, that dread barrier, has terrible consequences. Malcolm only came back to life for a little while, and look how ruinous that was. There's a good reason that even the Devil has never meddled with these things.

But if he is going to get Chloe home, he may not have a choice.

Malcolm, blast him, has been watching Lucifer's face closely, has realized that if he was going to kill him, or if he was able to, he would have done it by now. He straightens up, rubbing his hands. "Aha," he says. "Just like old times. We gonna work together or what, pal?"

"Don't push your luck." Lucifer's voice is very low and very dark, eyes red, even if he knows it's not going to affect him. A shadow falls over the empty bar, cold and menacing, enough to make them shiver. "But it may be the case that we can make a deal."

"Right. Right. I'm all for it. Deals are your thing. I'm listenin'." Malcolm leans against the bar with studied insouciance. "And that is?"

"I send you back to Earth. New body and all. Shiny toys for you to play with." Lucifer smiles his most serpentine smile. "You find my brother – I'm sure you remember him, don't you? – and tell him to bring our sister's lost item to Rome. See? So simple, even you can manage it."

Malcolm licks his lips, a hungry gleam entering his eyes like a starving wolf in winter. If there's anything he wants, if there's anything he won't ask too many questions about, it's the prospect of getting to return to life, with the added bonus of leaving Lucifer and Chloe stuck down here. "That's a mighty tempting offer. Mighty tempting. Almost looks, you know – what's the phrase? Oh yeah. Too good to be true."

Lucifer swears under his breath, but manages to keep his urbane, teeth-bared smile. "That's the thing about playing cards at the Devil's table, now isn't it? Never know if you're hitting the jackpot, or folding hard. Just have to take the bargain, and see where it leads you. Had a fun conversation about it once, with a fellow named Faust."

"Well." Malcolm scratches his chin. "Can't deny I _really, really want_ to go back up there. But man, you _must_ be desperate if you're lookin' to _me_ for help. Not that I don't want to, of course," he adds, with nauseating insincerity. "I'm a cop, after all. Protect and serve in the city of angels, that's me. So ironic, isn't it? I mean, really. But I'd get to stay up there? Once I was done serving as your little messenger boy? Because with something like this, you know. . . quid pro quo."

"We'll say. . . why not." Lucifer affects his own casual lean on the counter. "Oh, and by the way. Don't even think of running off, Malky. You go up there on my ticket, I know where you are, what you're doing, what thoughts are lurking in your tiny reptile brain. You set one foot out of line, and I can hit the button down here and destroy you in a puff of brimstone. So you go straight to Amenadiel and you do what I say, and you may get your chance. If not. . ."

This, by the way, is utterly a bluff. Once he springs Malcolm from here, he has little to no control over what he does or where he goes. He can possibly choose a body, such as a decrepit ninety-year-old geezer with two bad hips and a pacemaker, that it would be hard for Malcolm to get up to too much trouble in; difficult to start a supernatural war when you're hobbling around with tennis balls on your walker and yelling at kids to get off your lawn, after all. But even then, he can't have 100% certainty that Malcolm will actually occupy the chosen vessel, or that he won't try to upgrade. After all, as previously noted, demons who know what they are doing _can_ get into human bodies uninvited, and move between them if they're strong enough. Malcolm could make a play for, say, Brad Pitt. That would _really_ be a problem.

And yet. Azrael's blade can kill him, and it can get them out of hell. It destroys souls, it's certainly strong enough to cut a doorway back into the mortal world. And Lucifer can't help but remember Chloe this morning, beautiful and dark and dangerous. How he can see the tragedy of his early days, how quickly this place's grasp on him became inexorable and unshakable, playing out with her. And he can't. He can't. He _can't._

Lucifer holds out his hand, black stone on his ring flashing in the dimness. "So," he says silkily. "Do we have a deal?"

Malcolm looks at it, licks his lips again, and considers one last time. Then he grasps hold, and shakes. "Yeah," he says, and grins. "Oh yeah, we sure do."

* * *

It's around a few hours later when the black Corvette pulls up in front of the warehouse, there's a flutter of excitement at seeing the big boss in the flesh, and Lucifer and Charlotte stride inside, past the huddled line of souls. They reach the office and enter without knocking, and Chloe and the Morrigan glance up in confusion. Lucifer narrows his eyes at the latter, as they were a relatively late addition to the hell-squad; he picked them up sometime in the Middle Ages, and he's never entirely trusted them, or warmed to their threesome act (probably the first time he's ever said that). Supposedly they are merely the personification of fate, cannot change what has already been done and destined by an individual, but he can't be sure. He's also gotten the impression that they much prefer to work with Chloe over him. Whether it's because they think a woman is more suited to the task, or they trust her more, or think she's more easily manipulated, or whatever, they do not seem to be in any hurry to let her out of their talons, and give him a trio of evil eyes as he enters. "Well, Detective. Had a good morning, I'm sure? Ready to go?"

Chloe gives him the annoyed look she gives him when he bursts into her office unannounced back in Los Angeles. Which, considering this is technically _his_ office and he wants her out of it ASAP, is more than a bit worrying. "Lucifer, can you just wait a minute?"

He opens and shuts his mouth. There's presently a soul called onto the carpet in front of her, whose Pentecostal coin she takes, scans the misdeeds, and nods coolly, as it's chucked straight through Door #1 with no further ado. It gives him a chill to see how good she's gotten, and how she looks up as if she's hit any other normal break in her work. She smiles, pushes back the chair, and clicks over to him. Even in heels, she is still a head shorter than him, and she puts a hand on his arm. "How's the. . . mother-son bonding gone?"

"Productively," Lucifer says, shooting a glare at Charlotte to warn her not to interrupt. "We. . . we caught Malcolm, actually. Handled him."

"Oh?" Chloe's eyes narrow. "How?"

"We. . . came to an arrangement. He'll be out of our way."

"You came to an arrangement? With _Malcolm?"_ Chloe's voice rises in disbelief. "Why don't I like the sound of that?"

"It's risky business, yes, but if we're going to get out of here – "

For a moment, as she tilts her head back to look up at him, he has the distinct and unsettling impression that her eyes are burning red. "I don't like this, Lucifer."

"Yes, well. . . I don't blame you, I hardly do either, but desperate times." He smiles uncomfortably. "I have it under control."

"You," Chloe repeats, with unflattering skepticism. "Have it under control."

Lucifer is stung. "Come on, Detective. Have a _little_ faith in me, eh?"

Chloe regards him unreadably, as the Morrigan likewise observe in their usual implacable silence. Snooping Susans, the lot of them. Then, unexpectedly, she smiles, which isn't entirely comforting. "Right," she says, clapping her hands. "Faith in you. Of course. Does hell have a sandwich shop? I could do with some lunch."

"Detective – "

"Oh, yeah. I can do it myself." Chloe turns back to the desk, concentrates, and conjures up a delicious-looking club sandwich and a bottle of whatever hideous organic fruit juice she likes. As Lucifer stares, she sits down, whips up a few napkins, and starts to eat. Between bites, she says, "So, since you've handled that, are you planning to stay for the afternoon and give me a hand? Two of us could get this over with much faster than one."

"I – ah." Lucifer is utterly discomfited, in a way he isn't used to being even with her, and the way she customarily turns his life on its head. It's true that if they _could_ clear them out faster, it would mean less time here for her, but he also doesn't think that Charlotte is going to be content to pull up a chair in the corner and watch them work. Yet if he can stop Chloe from doing it all herself, if he can lessen the grip of the baneful influence that all too clearly has its claws in her, that has to be worth something, doesn't it? He's already taken Malcolm to the drop-off point, launched him up into the chosen body (a recently deceased eighty-three-year-old retiree from Arizona, name of Earl Horton – told Malcolm it was Wesley Cabot, Malcolm being none the wiser about Wesley's shuffle off the mortal coil, and hopefully he won't discover the switcheroo until it's too late) and sent him off. The plan is in motion. With the remotest, faintest, desperate bit of luck, Amenadiel could be down here with Azrael's blade in a few more days. Not that he is counting on it, but really, he can't do much else.

"Come on." Chloe gives him a vulpine smile, a seductive turn of her head, that makes Lucifer gulp hard. "Don't you want to spend some quality time with me?"

"I, ah." Twice in a row. He's not used to being so inarticulate. Especially because he knows she's no stranger to flirting with him to get her way, but this feels. . . different. It was always playful with a hint of invitation before, but this is more straightly manipulative, less friendly, less teasing. As if there's a darker undercurrent, a threat, if he doesn't do what she says, something that's never been the case between them before. "Detect – Chloe. Maybe you should take the afternoon off. I'll finish up here."

Chloe's lips purse. "And what? Go get my nails painted with your mother?"

"We _can_ spend time together," Charlotte offers. "If you want."

"I – " Lucifer doesn't know that that's the wisest idea, even if Chloe would agree, which she certainly does not appear likely to do. At this point, it's a fair question which of them would try to kill the other first, and he might even be more likely to bet on Chloe. And despite how powerful she seems to have gotten in a worryingly short amount of time, Charlotte is still stronger. Letting them out of his sight is definitely no way to avoid a heart attack, if that's something that immortals can actually have. He's not interested in finding out.

He waits until Chloe finishes her lunch, then stands up. "Actually, I think you've done enough of them for now, my dear. How about we all go, I don't know. Sightsee?"

"Sightsee?" Chloe looks at him, amused. "In hell? What, the special torture racks where Maze roasted pedophile seat-reclining Nazis? Is that a big attraction down here?"

"How about I just don't want you doing this?" His voice is sharper than he intended, but he's losing patience, as well as composure. "Would that be such a crime, Detective?"

Her expression likewise turns darker. "I thought we argued about that this morning already."

"Yes, well, I don't recall that we agreed it was a wise idea, just that my mother – "

"You didn't get your way, did you?" Chloe looks at him with a dismissive smile. "And that's driving you crazy, isn't it? I didn't do what you said, in the place where you're supposed to be the god-emperor, and you can't stand that. You already know what I think of your mother, but she's not wrong that it's my decision. So if you think you can just – "

"It's not about controlling you, and it's not about whether I got my bloody way! It's that it's a stupid bloody idea and it's changing you, it's _changing_ you, and I can't see you turn into a monster in front of my eyes! Where's the old Chloe? Where's the Chloe who would be turning over every bloody stone in her way to get back to her daughter? Trixie, have you thought about Trixie more than in passing since you got here? Bloody Detective Douche, even? Maze? Anyone back on earth who matters to you? Wake up, Chloe! _Wake up!"_

He's almost shouting, so that the lights flicker, the walls sway, the office does not quite hold as firm shape as it used to. As if hell is once more about to change. She flinches, biting her lip, and he can see real uncertainty on her face, as well as shame. "Lucifer, I. . ."

"Don't apologize," he says wearily. "It's stupid of me to think that this place wouldn't possibly affect you, and it's not your fault that you're down here. I know you're strong. You have to fight it. You have to get it out of your head. I've a plan in place, we could be on our way home in a few more days, but hell days aren't equivalent to earth days. I don't know how much time has passed up there, and you've already gotten in bloody deep enough. Please, Chloe. _Please."_

Chloe pauses, then nods. "Okay," she says quietly. Crosses the floor to him, takes his hands in hers. "Okay, Lucifer. It's enough for today. I'll come with you."

"Thank you." He blows out a breath, tucking her arm into his, giving the Morrigan a significant and warning look. "Right then. Let's go."

With Charlotte in tow, they return to the Corvette, which of course does not fit three people, and Chloe easily refashions it to add a backseat. It's clear that she very much enjoys it, just as any human would, the ability to tweak and sculpt reality (or rather, infernality) to her specifications. There is a brief and silent exchange of glances between her and Charlotte as to who is going to sit in said backseat, which Charlotte finally gracefully gives into, and does so. Chloe gets into the passenger seat, and Lucifer swings behind the wheel. He notices that the streets still look like Los Angeles, but grittier and bluer and darker. The car tires leave tracks through the ash on the pavement. The illusion of home is wearing off. The true nature of hell is getting stronger. Whether despite Chloe, or because of Chloe, is hard to say.

They pull up at Lucifer's house, and go inside. Chloe seems quiet, pensive, tired. Asks abruptly if there is any way to get a message to Trixie – demon mail, or whatever. The answer is not really. People who have gone to heaven can sometimes reach through the veil and speak to their loved ones still on earth in varying ways, but you never want to hear that your dearly departed has ended up in the Hot Place, and besides, for obvious reasons, there are safeguards against damned souls escaping. And Lucifer has just deliberately set free the one who transgressed the rules last time. Even as an eighty-three-year-old geriatric who probably keeled over in front of a _The Price Is Right_ re-run and drives thirty miles an hour in his Buick, Malcolm is still going to be dangerous. But he doesn't know what Azrael's blade is and has no way of finding out, and if Amenadiel is smart, he'll just up and stab him with it immediately, rather than leaving anything to chance. The most satisfying solution, however, would be to take Malcolm/Earl with him back to hell, and then they can _all_ take turns stabbing him with it. That would be delightful.

Charlotte retires to her study, and Lucifer and Chloe sit on the couch. There is still that current between them, that need to be closer to each other, but after what happened earlier, both of them are wary about giving into it. Chloe hasn't asked him explicitly what he did with Malcolm, either because she actually trusts him when he claims he has it under control, or because she isn't sure she wants to know. Then she says quietly, "So you said we're going home soon?"

"Yes." He's not going to let himself think about any other possibility.

"What about – " Chloe's eyes flick significantly down the hall. "She says she's not interested in coming back to the mortal world. Do you buy that?"

"For better or for worse, yes. I do."

"And do you think she's just going to stay here and rule hell and be happy with that? Your mom's plan was to go back to heaven with her kids, Lucifer. She isn't going to take this as a consolation prize."

"Yes, well, maybe she'll change her mind." It's weak, he knows it's weak, but he still can't face the thought of stabbing his mother, his _mother,_ with that unholy thing, especially after Uriel. "It's not a terrible gig. Hell does need a ruler. You seem to be enjoying it just fine."

"And you'd trust her with that?"

"If she's _in_ hell, what does it matter?"

"The part where she tries to raise a new supernatural army and destroy the world?" Chloe gives him a funny look. "I'm pretty sure that matters."

"Maybe she won't."

"Maybe the earth will revolve the other way. Sure. Everything's possible. But it would be stupid to count on it." Chloe puts a hand on his arm, edges closer, looks up at him, until their faces are very close together. "She can't come home with us, and she can't stay here. Lucifer, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I know you don't want to hear this, but she. . ."

"Is this Chloe Decker talking?" he asks evenly. "Or the Lady of Hell?"

Chloe flinches. "I listened to you earlier. Now you have to listen to me."

"Do I?"

"If you want us to be any kind of a team again, yes." Her lips go thin. "Remember how it's not about you getting your way?"

"That's unfair, Detective."

"Look. Don't think I don't know what I'm asking. But – "

"You are asking me to _kill my mother."_ His voice is low and absolutely lethal, and she shrinks slightly, but he won't let her off the hook. "Let's not dance around that, shall we? After bloody everything my family has been through, after I have been through, after what I've already done, after what's happened – I know. _I know._ But I'm not doing it. Even for you. I can't."

Chloe holds his gaze coolly. "Because that stopped you with Uriel?"

He rears back like a snake. "You don't know a thing about that."

"No. Not really. Not all the details. Because you won't tell me." He starts to get up, and she grabs his wrist. "I know he died, and I know you killed him, but I _don't know why._ And unless you tell me, I don't think we're getting anywhere. Tonight, or ever."

Lucifer is tense as a coiled wire, wanting desperately to explode, to run away, to not face this, not admit it, but there is really nowhere to go, and damn him, she's right. He stares up at the ceiling, enraged and exhausted and never wanting it to have been this way. Finally he says through his teeth, "Fine. Bloody fine. I killed. . . I killed him to. . . to save your life."

Chloe's eyelashes flutter. Even if she might have had an inkling, it's still something different to hear it confirmed. The silence is leaden. Then she says quietly, "I'm sorry."

He lets out a slow, rattling breath. "I. . . he was going to kill you. I didn't have a choice. But that doesn't mean I ever wanted to do it, or that I will ever deserve forgiveness for it. I can't do that with my mother. I can't. And if you care for me at all, you can't ask it."

Again, silence. He can almost hear her thinking that if that's the case, she might have to do it herself – and yet knows that that would permanently break the trust between them, whatever fragile foundation they might be starting to build on, any idea of a future in any world. As if they might get out of here and save their souls, but they will lose everything else, including each other, along the way. As if what it will cost to save the world, of doing the goody two-shoes "right thing" (as much as it _can_ be the right thing when it involves killing your own mother) might not be worth it. Because that's what any future without her is. Empty. Lifeless. Dead.

Lucifer wonders, then, if it's worth it for _him_ to go back. Or if it's even possible. He doesn't want to stay, to be sure. Doesn't want to leave Chloe while there is still a single breath in his body, or any time to be spent with her. Can't even stand to think about it. But if the only solution that will let Charlotte live, and which won't involve leaving hell to fall under her sway and a new immortal war, means that things go back to the way they used to be – him here, her living under his supervision, Chloe safe and home on Earth – then he might have to consider it. He's always known it might come to this. Stab Malcolm. Keep Azrael's blade in hell, away from meddling human hands, until the next time she drops by to pick it up. Send Chloe back with Amenadiel. He and Mum stay here, for good. As if his life in Los Angeles has just been a long fever dream. Sweet, and short, and over. Only a vacation, after all. Nothing good can stay.

Amenadiel's words from centuries ago echo in his head.

 _Do your duty, Lucifer._

Now, perhaps, it may finally, terribly, be time.


	7. Canto VII

**Canto VII**

Amenadiel wakes up feeling like – excuse his language – total crap. More precisely, like crap that fell off the garbage truck, got run over, and then the truck backed up and ran over it again. Copious consumption of his little brother's extensive liquor cabinet has not helped at all in this regard, after he left Chloe and Maze's place last night and came back here to Lux, thus to sit alone in the empty tower gazing down at the world so far away below, like toys or ants skittering about on their insignificant business. It makes him wonder if that's what Dad feels like, up there on His solitary throne, and then he remembers Dad's little bathroom ambush, and then he groans out loud and puts his head back down on his arms. Even with supernatural metabolism in his corner, he is still a total rookie at anything booze-related, and he was definitely sampling most of what Lucifer has to offer. Which, knowing Lucifer, probably includes some things that aren't meant for angels to safely drink, let alone humans.

After a further moment of lying prostrate and feeling sorry for himself fails to improve the situation in any measurable particular, Amenadiel groans again and sits up, fumbling for his phone. It's a new acquisition, which he doesn't know how to use very well, and he angrily thumbs at the slick screen (would it kill the humans to make these things with _buttons?)_ past all the cat videos and porn popups he can't figure out how to get rid of, hoping to see a message from Maze. Something about how she's worked out what to do (look at him, a voice jeers savagely, still waiting for a _demon_ to solve his problems) or how she was thinking of him and hoping he was all right, or. . . he doesn't know, anything. A brief pang of longing for his mother crosses his mind. At least _she_ listened. At least _she_ cared. To nearly lead him into fall and failure and damnation, yes. . . but now that she's gone, he can't help but miss her. It's maddening.

Amenadiel shuffles into the shower and freshens up, changes his clothes, and otherwise does his best not to look like a homeless hobo squatting in this fancy place while the owner is away. He's just wondering if he dares to venture breakfast when the door buzzer goes off. Someone is below at the staff entrance to Lux, asking to be let in.

He frowns. This is outside normal operation for the club; they just had last call a few hours ago. One of Lucifer's employees would surely have their own key card, though he can't fathom why they'd be dropping in so early, but then it occurs to him that it must be the people from the airline returning their lost bags – this _was_ the address he put down on the claim forms. Good, and not a moment too soon. Maze needs her daggers back. He hops in the elevator, rides down, and strides through the quiet, empty club to the door, pulling it open. "Yes, can I help – ?"

"Mr. Morningstar?" The voice comes from considerably below his eye level, and gives him a terrible start of wanting to turn around and look for Lucifer, before he remembers that that is now, officially at least, also him. It's not an airport employee or a cab driver, but a little old guy who looks about eighty, wearing a _Sun City Golf Club_ mesh hat, a loud floral shirt, khaki shorts, and support socks pulled up to the knee, leaning on a cane. "Mr. – Amenadoodie Morningstar?"

Amenadiel winces. "Er. Hello. Yes. That's me. Are you sure you have the right – "

"Yessirree. Sure do." The geezer sticks out his hand. He smells strongly of prunes and Geritol. Amenadiel devoutly thanks his lucky stars that he is immortal and will never end up like this (barring, of course, something truly drastic). "I'm Earl, Earl Horton. I've got your bags here, my wife grabbed 'em off the carousel instead of ours. Told Prudy ours had a blasted _tag_ on 'em, but you know. Women. Well, they're down in my car, sonny boy, if you'll come and fetch 'em, I can't carry 'em myself."

The old man beckons with his cane and turns to hobble away, and Amenadiel follows him out into the cool, pale morning, down the steps to the side alley. A Buick the size of a boat is occupying all the available space, and he makes his way around to the trunk, bending over to haul out his black duffel, Maze's bombproof titanium carrying case that probably doubles as a lethal throwing discus, and Trixie's little Disney-princess wheelie bag. "Thanks, sir, thanks a lot. I'll be happy to pay you back for anything else you – "

At that, as he straightens up and turns around, he sees Earl Horton, harmless old coot-turned-patron saint of lost baggage, holding Maze's daggers. One in each hand, and he's dropped the cane. "Found these in there. Funny lookin' things. You sure you should be keeping these around?"

"Sir." Amenadiel lunges at him, but Horton takes a quick step back. Awfully spryly, considering. "Sir, you have no idea what those are, and you'd better put them down before – "

"Someone gets hurt?" Horton grins. "Actually, pal. Happens I know exactly what they are. Didja like my whole old-guy act? Fooled you, didn't I? And I stabbed you with these once before. What happens if I do it again? How'd you even survive in the first place, by the way? Not as much juice as you promised, or I just didn't get you enough?"

Amenadiel's brain is completely numb with horror. Can't be seeing what he's seeing, hearing what he's hearing. As something clicks over in his head – if he had his powers, he would have sensed this right away, but in his current state, he is no better than a blind child, to stumble straight into any waiting snare. This can't be happening, it can't be. "Mal – _Malcolm?"_

"Surprise! Betcha thought you'd seen the last of me, huh?" Earl-Malcolm grins wider, eyes briefly turning black. The strength of the demonic entity inside this frail, used mortal body is overwhelming – it's not going to be able to contain it for long. "Your brother said he was gonna give me Wesley Cabot, so I'm kinda pissed that he didn't, but hey, Prince of Lies, right? Besides, I'll get an upgrade soon enough anyway, and I've got a message for you from baby bro. He says you've got something of your sister's, and he wants you to bring it to Rome and get flushed down the crapper to hell with it. See? Did my job. Delivered it like a good boy."

" _Lucifer_ sent – ?" No. Amenadiel doesn't know what's going on, but there is no way on heaven, earth, or hell that Lucifer would use Malcolm Graham, of all damned souls, as his trusted courier. And this – asking him to bring Azrael's blade to hell? _Azrael's blade?_ Where Mom can get hold of it – where any of the worst people who ever lived might also theoretically be able to get their hands on it? Where the very fabric of the cosmos could potentially be undone? Either Lucifer has gone completely insane after only a few days back in his old haunts, or Malcolm is just lying his butt off, or – whatever it is, there is absolutely no good option. At least Malcolm doesn't seem to realize – yet – what exactly he's asking Amenadiel to retrieve, but he has the demon daggers, he knows about Lux, he knows about Lucifer's human job and contacts – obviously, he used to _work_ there. And he's clearly not planning to spend unnecessary time constrained inside gimpy-kneed, fanny-packed, prune-smelling Earl Horton, for which at least Amenadiel cannot blame him. But this – _but this –_

At that moment, the standoff is broken by the crunching of tires, a LAPD squad car turns into the alley, and parks. While Amenadiel is still panicking, the doors slam, and two people step out, one of whom he recognizes as Chloe Decker's ex-husband, the one he and Lucifer did the sting at the sex club with, who looks so indisputably like a cop. The other is a petite black-haired woman in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, a small silver cross around her neck. They take in the scene, and Daniel Espinoza strides forward. "Anything going on here, gentlemen?"

"Hey, buddy." Earl-Malcolm waves, flashing a leering grin. "Just who I wanted to see, to make this a real party. Good to catch up, isn't it? You know, out of frame jobs and all?"

Dan is completely blank for half a second – and then, despite everything, this seemingly ordinary human can in fact be remarkably perceptive, and he somehow figures it out in the next heartbeat. He goes madly for his gun, as the woman yells in shock at seeing him apparently preparing to cap an innocent octogenarian in the ass, and Amenadiel bellows, "Don't! Don't shoot! You'll just free him from that body and he could – I don't know, take over one of you!"

"What the – ?" The woman stares wildly between all three of them, utterly lost and considerably shaken. "Is this some other acting thing?"

"Haven't met this cute little tidbit." Earl-Malcolm waggles his fingers. "New hire at the department, Danny? You married this one and then lied to her about something important yet?"

Dan puts out an arm. "Stay behind me, Ella."

The woman – Ella, apparently – looks like she'll need no telling to do that, even as her eyes keep flicking over Earl-Malcolm, the curved black daggers in his hands, and the way Amenadiel and Dan both seem to know and totally hate Grandpa Bernie tootling up from Sun City. The silence is hideous, nobody entirely sure what to do, until Earl-Malcolm, knowing they can't shoot him and risk fully unleashing him, that he has the dangerous weapons, and that his point is made, shrugs and opens the door of the Buick, swinging behind the wheel. "Well. I got some living to catch up on, and a better vessel to find. I'll be around, amigos. See you soon."

With that, he revs backwards as Dan and Ella dive to either side to avoid being hit, lays rubber, and burns out down Hollywood Boulevard at a velocity that no one actually of that age has ever driven – a literal speed demon, Amenadiel thinks, and then hates himself. He looks up to find the cop and the other cop (or whatever she is) staring at him. "Okay," Dan says, raising a hand to his face and then dropping it. "You want to tell me what the _fuck_ is going on here?"

"It's – " Oh Dad, how does he even begin to explain it? "You wouldn't understand."

"Yeah?" Dan's jaw clenches. "Try me."

"Look, you – what are you two even doing here?"

"Lucifer and Chloe are our friends." It's Ella who answers. "You think we aren't looking for any way to help them?"

"Yes, but you're hu – you don't – "

"Lucifer told me what happened." Dan looks at him levelly. "That Chloe, that she. . . that she got dragged into hell. Actual hell. I volunteered to go with him, but he wouldn't let me."

"Same," Amenadiel says automatically, and then wants to bite his tongue. "Wait. Lucifer _told_ you?"

"Yeah," Dan says again, folding his arms. "And it sounds completely crazy, sure, but you know what? I actually do believe him."

"And you?" Amenadiel turns to Ella, desperate for an out. "You don't really buy this, do you?"

"Dude," Ella says. "I'm Catholic. I'm asked to buy plenty of crazy stuff on a daily basis, and I. . . well, I obviously don't know for sure either, but Dan says that's what's going on, and I'm choosing to believe him. It's not something out of the realm of possibility for what _could_ happen. So, yeah. I'll play ball. It might be a little out of my usual league, but at least I know the rules."

Well, Amenadiel thinks. That makes one of us. He glances guiltily at Dan. "On behalf of my brother, I apologize for the whole taking your daughter out of the country without permission thing."

"Trixie's a pretty headstrong kid." Dan's mouth quirks dryly. "I imagine she _could_ probably twist Lucifer's arm, especially if her mom's safety is at stake. I'm still a little mad, yeah, but. . . well, as long as she's back safely."

"She is, she's at home with Maze, I'm sure she's fine." For now, yes, but Earl-Malcolm is on the loose with the demon daggers, and already kidnapped Trixie once before, after all. Even Maze is vulnerable to those things, and they need to get Azrael's blade posthaste and end Malcolm for good. . . but if they unleash that thing again, after the chaos it caused last time. . . Dan and Ella can attest that personally. Amenadiel isn't sure if he could even still control it himself. And this insane possibility that Lucifer _has_ actually asked for it down in hell – but what can he need it for? Amenadiel wants to trust his brother, he does, he really does. . . but he doesn't. Not entirely. Not with this, the seed of doubt whispering in his mind. _Stop them, Amenadiel._

Great, Dad. You're a real help.

"So?" Ella bounces anxiously on her toes, looking back and forth between them. "Shouldn't we, you know, do detective things? I realize it's different with a case like this, but there has to be a way to help them. And who's Senior Drag Racer? How do you two know him, exactly?"

Amenadiel and Dan exchange a please-tell-her-because-I-don't-want-to look. Neither of them bites the bullet. This is Lucifer and Maze's sordid little hobby, not his. Amenadiel does not know the first thing about human police work, nor has he ever felt the inclination to learn. Isn't this the one that Lucifer semi-affectionately refers to as Detective Douche? What good is _he_ going to do? But heaven knows that Amenadiel desperately needs allies of some, or any, sort. No matter what bizarre form they come in. Beggars and choosers. The struggle is real.

Still, though. Dan knows who Malcolm is. Knows Lucifer and Chloe, and cares about them both, even if obviously one more than the other. And seems to be unavoidably in the loop anyway, so trying to shut him out will just result in him lone-wolfing it, and that will cause even _more_ trouble that will give Amenadiel an even worse headache to deal with. He could do worse. And if he doesn't get his angelic rump in gear, he's about to find out just how bad it can be.

Amenadiel blows out a slow, jagged breath and says, "Why don't you come inside."

One crash course up in the penthouse later, after everything short of a blood oath to get them to promise that they will not breathe a word to anyone anywhere, Dan and Ella are staring back at him with expressions that can't decide whether to be skeptical, stunned, or more stunned. The latter seems to be winning, as they exchange a look, open their mouths, and then shut them. Finally Dan says, "Well. I can't deny it explains the literal hell of a lot about you weirdoes."

"Azrael's blade? As in Angel of Death Azrael?" Ella has latched onto something rather different. _"That's_ what I was helping Lucifer look for? And Azrael's a she? And you have it here?"

"Wait." A look of horror crosses Dan's face. "Is that the thing which got me to almost – "

"Yes." The heavenly cat is out of the bag and up the tree with no firemen in sight, so Amenadiel might as well go for broke. "So you see why Malcolm can't possibly get his hands on it."

"Call Maze," Dan commands, which makes Amenadiel bristle slightly – he does not take marching orders from the likes of Detective Daniel Espinoza, thank you very much. "Call her and tell her what's going on right away."

That is not a conversation which Amenadiel is looking forward to having. Amputating his own arm with a dull pocketknife might be preferable. But he knows it's unforgivably stupid not to, and he gets his phone, pokes in frustration at it until it obeys his wishes, and waits, heart pounding. Maybe she won't –

Maze picks up on the second ring. "Yeah? You know how to do an eight-year-old's hair for school? I'm struggling."

"I. . ." Amenadiel is momentarily distracted by _that_ mental image. "Look. I need to tell you something. It's not good."

There's a pause, which sounds distinctly like Maze moving down the hall so Trixie can't overhear. Then she says again, "Yeah?"

As briefly as he can, Amenadiel acquaints her with the grisly Malcolm situation, not least that he's gotten hold of her daggers and is rocketing around Los Angeles as an elderly fiend in search of a corporeal upgrade – and with all these thin, rich, beautiful people, he'll have plenty of options. Maze is silent for a long and deadly moment, until she bursts out, "Are you _kidding_ me? Someone let your psychotic pet out of the zoo again and he – ? _Seriously?"_

"It wasn't my fault this time!" Amenadiel wants to make sure they establish that. "He said it was Lucifer!"

"Lucifer would never let _him_ out of hell," Maze declares. "He's lying. Obviously."

"Yes, well, someone did." Amenadiel tries to think how to phrase this. "And if Lucifer – well, if he's decided that rescuing Chloe is not all he wants to do – "

"You mean if he wants to get the blade and start a new war?" Maze's voice has gotten sleek. Dangerously so. "That sounds like something Mommy Dearest wants. Not Lucifer."

"Yes, but if they. . ." Amenadiel hesitates. "If they made up. . ."

"You're one to talk."

"I know! I know, all right? How easy it is to forgive her, for both of us! Because at least she was here, she listened to us, she cared! She knows how to work on Lucifer! You know she does! We _cannot_ let either of them get hold of that blade, no matter what it costs us!"

There's a longer, icier pause. "Wow," Maze says. "So you're perfectly fine with leaving Lucifer and Chloe stuck down there. Good to know."

"That – that isn't what I said." Amenadiel has to wrestle with the fact that it, however, might be exactly what he meant. It would certainly solve a number of problems if Lucifer was back there for good, as well noted, and he'd even have his detective to keep him company. The two of them would have no trouble ruling the place side by side, for sure. Keep an eye on Mom, put things back in order. Easy. So easy. Fulfill what Dad asked of him. _Stop them._

"Well," Maze goes on, after he doesn't say anything else. "If you think I'm going back and telling Trixie that, oops, her mom is never coming home because Amenadiel's a chickenshit coward with no balls, you're an even bigger idiot than I thought. And trust me, by now, that's a pretty high bar to clear."

"Thanks, Mazikeen. Really."

"Oh, you're welcome. Own it. You've earned it." Her voice is almost vibrating with suppressed rage. And if you know Maze, you know that she doesn't suppress rage well. Or, for that matter, at all. "I told you to forget about whatever stupid non-advice your dad gave you."

"I can't do that."

"Why? You forget everything else quick enough!"

"Mazikeen, I – " Amenadiel, conscious of Dan and Ella's stares burning holes through him, sidles around the corner into the other room. "I want to get them home too, all right? I just don't trust anything Malcolm tells me, ever!"

"You trusted him to kill Lucifer for you," Maze points out, with cool, merciless precision. "And that word. _Home_. You said you wanted to get them home. Meaning back here. Not in hell."

Amenadiel leans his head against the bookshelf. "I know you miss your roommate, and I'm sure Trixie misses her mother. If we can get _Chloe_ home, since that's obviously here for her, and hell hasn't changed her too much, then – "

"Correction," Maze says. "Friend. I miss my friend. Not that you'd know anything about that, since you have no friends. And yes, we need to get her out of there. I can't believe this is even a debate. You're still so fixated on your warped idea of the greater good, and so afraid of losing it again, that you can't bring yourself to do anything at all. You're paralyzed. Ironic that it takes a demon to manage what an angel's failed at morality, huh?"

"Mazikeen – "

"You know what?" She sounds tired. "I've heard enough. Enough, Amenadiel. If you grow a spine and actually want to pitch in, you know where to find me. But I'm not sitting through another one, a single one, of your pompous, selfish, stupid, cowardly lectures. Send the humans to me. At least I have a chance of helping them."

" _Mazikeen – "_

"Goodbye, Amenadiel." It's quiet. Soft. Sad. Almost heartbroken. "I'm sorry."

And with that, she hangs up.

* * *

Chloe doesn't sleep that night.

She lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling, as Lucifer is curled up on the far side of the bed from her – nearly as far as he can get, in fact, without ending up on the floor. She can feel the distance like an open wound, even as her pride struggles with the belief that it's not fair for him to be mad at her. _He_ was the one who thought it was a brilliant idea to make deals with Malcolm without telling her, to welcome his mother back under his roof, to try to stop her from doing the job he himself ran out on – yes, she knows she pushed her luck trying to get him to put Charlotte down once and for all, but the woman – _demon_ – is dangerous. Impossibly, unbelievably, incredibly, existentially so, and there's a nice cage here waiting for her. Lucifer can't control her, and he's not himself around her. Someone needs to take this into their own hands. And there's only looking to be one candidate for the job.

Chloe tosses and turns, angry and upset and unhappy, wanting desperately to wake Lucifer up and tell him that she's sorry – but she's still sore at him, and he'll probably just be a snarky, dismissive jerk anyway. Really, what else can she expect from the _Devil?_ All her cute little fantasies of going home to Los Angeles for coffee dates and sunset strolls on the beach – is she crazy? They have no future. And if they do, if there's anything at all, it's going to be down here. Not up there. There's nothing up there.

That thought alarms her enough that she jerks and flips over again. Tries desperately to picture storytime in bed with Trixie, morning coffee and case files at the precinct, or Dan, or Maze saying something totally inappropriate, or Ella giving her a hug, or – or anything from her old life at all. It's there, but in a dreamy and faded and fuzzy way, like a fond old memory, one that you're fine with letting go of, the past which you're content for it to stay that way. Lucifer's right. She's changing. She's forgetting. Sooner rather than later, and far more than she's let herself acknowledge or realize, human Chloe Amelia Decker is going to be entirely gone.

She shifts again, rolling closer to Lucifer. Maybe she's being too hard on him. He did come down here after her, now he's seeing her succumbing so swiftly to the countless centuries of pain and darkness he fought so hard to get away from, and furthermore, she tastes it as pleasure, not poison. Killed his _brother_ for her, for Christ's sake (is Christ another one of his brothers? Or half-brother, that is? Never mind). She can't just ask him to go down the line offing the rest of his family, no matter how much he cares for her. But nothing about this is ordinary.

Her hands are still burning with the desire to touch him. To wake him up right now, in the soft depths of the night, and see what he would do. The need to taste the forbidden fruit, so to speak, just keeps getting stronger, and it's well established that he's not exactly going to say no. She keeps telling herself that she won't. Keeps denying herself the pleasure. And isn't quite sure anymore, frankly, if she's protecting herself from him, or him from her.

Chloe hesitates a moment longer, then scoots across the cold expanse that separates them. Puts a hand on his arm, rolling him over toward her, as his eyelashes flutter. "Hey," she whispers. "I'm sorry. I just – I didn't want us to be mad at each other anymore. It doesn't feel right."

Lucifer regards her sleepily, but a faint smile manages to fight its way through. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, so she can tell there are still hurt feelings on his end, but he doesn't blame her for rousing him at ass o'clock in the hell-morning, at least. "Mmm, Detective?"

"I'm sorry. I'm just. . . I've been thinking about everything you said, and. . ." Chloe looks down. His big hand has curled around her arm, almost unconsciously, and it is rather distracting. Not to mention warm, despite the chill of the room. "You're right."

"Say that louder." His voice is deep and low, a rumble in his chest that makes her want to put her head against it and feel it. "Didn't catch it."

"Don't push your luck." She manages a crooked grin of her own. "Okay. You can go back to sleep now."

He raises an eyebrow, as if to say he _could,_ that is definitely an option, and one he has duly considered. "You woke me up just for an apology, Detective?"

"What else do you want?"

A thumb traces the inside of her forearm. "Oh, I suppose I could content myself with that."

Chloe swallows, breath hitching. God, he looks good underneath her, gazing up at her with eyes like pools of ink, dark hair _just-so_ disheveled, lips slightly parted. She's proved a point about her resistance and immunity to him, hasn't she? Does she keep having to do it? God, does she?

"I had an idea," she says instead, trying to distract herself. "There are two doors in the office, aren't there? One leads to eternal damnation, and the other leads to Purgatory. If you and I try to get through that one and into Purgatory, we might be able to, I don't know, catch somebody's attention from heaven, or somewhere higher up the food chain. You have to have other siblings who aren't total assholes, right? Could one of them help?"

"Oh, I doubt that." Lucifer's voice is cool. "They would never risk ending up on Dad's permanent bad side by giving _me_ a hand. Angels don't question. They don't have free will – or rather, it simply never occurs to them to use it. They – at least usually – do what they are bloody told. And I thought for the longest time after I came here that my siblings might decide to break ranks and come down to get me out. One of them. Any of them. Obviously, none of them did."

"That's no way to treat your kids," Chloe says quietly. "I don't care if you literally are God. It's not fair."

Lucifer snorts an unconscionably bitter laugh. "Take it up with him, darling."

"Maybe. But what do you think? Do you think we could get into Purgatory, at least?"

Lucifer hesitates. It's clear to both of them that this plan will involve leaving his mother here by herself, and while it might be an unavoidable risk, it is by no means a small one. Especially if, God forbid, Malcolm gets back while they're gone, with whatever Lucifer sent him to fetch; she still hasn't asked. If it even works that way. It's not like there's an actual Get Out of Hell Free card, or this would be much easier. The souls she's spared have used their Pentecostal coins to travel to Purgatory, and neither she nor Lucifer have one of those; he burned his with Malcolm in the hangar, and she isn't dead, nor (at least hopefully) bad enough to merit a trip down here even if she was. Maybe the Morrigan can arrange some kind of cheat code, but fate doesn't really go for cheat codes. Nor does Chloe get the sense that they'd be thrilled to let her go.

Still. It's something. "Well?" she presses. "Could we try?"

"We could _try."_ The tone of his voice makes clear that he's extremely doubtful that this would lead anywhere good. "But I've never been to the bloody place myself. I have no idea what I'd find there, or how it would react to me. It's where souls go to expiate their sins, and I. . . well, you can be sure I have plenty of those. I might just evaporate in a puff of brimstone on the spot."

"Isn't it also supposed to be the place where you get to work toward redemption?" Chloe leans over him, hair tumbling loose around her face in shadowed waves. "You've changed. I know you have. I've seen it. I know you're not who you used to be, by a long shot. Yes, you still make bad decisions – "

"It's the devil's prerogative to make bad decisions, my dear." His fingers thread through the fall of her hair. "Surely that doesn't surprise you?"

"See, you always say that, but I – know – it's – not – true." Chloe pokes him in the chest with every word, for emphasis. "I know that's not who you ultimately are. Look at what you've done for me. That alone is – "

"Doing something for someone because you care about them is different from being a good person, you know." He looks tired. "Even bloody awful people can have someone in their life who is important to them. You don't spare a despotic and power-mad king who slaughtered his subjects, just because he picked flowers for his daughter every Monday. Believe me, I know. Outside you, I'm. . ." He hesitates. "Not much to recommend me."

"What about Dan? You've made friends with him. In a way, I mean. And I would not have bet on that in a thousand years."

"Neither would I, for what it's worth." Lucifer's mouth twitches. "But likewise, Daniel bloody Espinoza is not nearly enough to buy me, I suppose one would call it, _street cred_. I just. . ." He trails off. "Well, that's it, really."

"No." Chloe cocks her head. "No, it's not. What else aren't you telling me?"

Lucifer hesitates for a long moment. Then he says, as determinedly offhandedly as possible, "Maybe it's better if I don't come back with you, Detective."

" _What?"_ That rocks Chloe to the core. She knows he doesn't lie to her, but she still wants to ask if he's making some even worse joke than usual, and she's almost frightened of the vehemence of the reaction it provokes in her. She bends over him, gripping his silken pajama shirt with both fists. "No. No, no, no. That's ridiculous. I can't believe you would even say that. You're coming back to Earth with me, that's final. I am not leaving my partner behind. No good cop would do that. No good _person_ would do that. Unless – " A horrible thought occurs to her. "Unless you don't _want –_ "

"Bloody hell, of course I want to leave this miserable cesspit!" He looks surprised that that should even have to be clarified. "Of course I want to go home with you! I just. . . I've been doing some thinking, and. . . I just haven't worked out how it would. . .well. It might just be better for everyone if I. . . if I stay."

"No. No, it is not better for everyone if you stay." Chloe is almost in tears. "It is not better for anyone. It's – it's not better for me. I said once that what I believed didn't matter, and you told me it was the only thing that mattered. Is that still true?"

He looks up at her wearily. "Detective – "

Chloe is out of words. Out of explanations, out of excuses, out of deflections, out of heart, out of strength. Knows all the damn good reasons not to, to wait for any other night, any other place. But it's this night, and it's this place, and she's so tired, she's so tired, she's so _tired._ Without another word, she lowers herself onto his chest, finds his mouth tentatively, fumblingly, clumsily in the dark, and kisses him.

Lucifer jerks, making a startled noise through his nose, even as his hand floats up to rest on her back, shifting her atop him as his other arm wraps around her. His mouth opens beneath hers, deep and soft and slow, as she gets a better grip on him and dives in for a second round. Holds him so hard, in fact, that she half wonders if she's hurting him, since she alone seems to possess that power. His hand moves to the back of her head, turning her just so, until they are practically part of each other, musing, dreaming. They part fractionally for breath, but don't pull away, and keep going back in once they have it. Over and over, over and over, until she barely remembers what life was like before they started. It certainly does not seem particularly important. This is the best thing she's done since she came here. Maybe ever. Maybe always.

At last, they break apart, both thoroughly flushed and hot. Chloe is lying full on top of him, she can feel his body roused against hers and then some, but instead of him making some suggestive remark at this point (frankly, he wouldn't need to do much suggesting) he seems oddly reticent, holding her off. As if the kiss was them acknowledging (or at least not being able to run away as vigorously as usual) the depth of their connection to each other, but this would make it irreversible. The word, after all, is _consummate._ The point of no return, where in ye olden days, a marriage became a real marriage, more than just a legal arrangement, but a lived truth, indissoluble. Not that she's thinking about _marrying_ him, God, no, but this. . . it feels the same, somehow. And for all his bravado about sleeping with her, it's become perfectly clear to both of them that when they do, it's crossing the Rubicon. They won't be able to go back. And despite everything, he's terrified of that. Possibly even more than she is.

Realizing that, Chloe rolls off him, even as she aches at the loss of contact, of connection. "Hey," she whispers. "Hey, it's okay. Let's just – let's just sleep, all right? Let's just sleep."

He hesitates, then nods. They roll over, pulling the covers up, as she does her best to modulate her breathing, force down the heat in her stomach, the need to touch one more time, just to be sure. Instead, somehow, she sleeps.

* * *

They're both rather jumpy at breakfast the next morning, which at least they manage to have without Charlotte barging in in hopes of catching them _in flagrante delicto,_ or whatever she was pulling with the waffle trick the other day. By unspoken agreement, neither of them mention the Purgatory gambit. Indeed, Lucifer makes breezy, disarming conversation, keeping her off the scent, until he finally mentions that he and the detective have a little errand to run, be back in a jiffy, and why doesn't she stay here and have a nice quiet day in? There's a thermal spa down in the basement, and the sulfur springs are very good for the skin. Rejuvenate the ol' mortal vessel. Maybe give herself a pedicure with the black pumice. Nap. All good options.

Charlotte seems pleased by this, which is hopefully just because she thinks Lucifer is being a good son and looking out for her well-being and comfort. She gracefully agrees that some relaxation does sound nice, and once she's gone downstairs, Lucifer and Chloe head out to his car, which looks far less like a vintage Corvette convertible than it did yesterday and instead like something much. . . _spikier._ Not quite a dread chariot of hell with bladed wheels, drawn by pitch-black horses with fire in their eyes, but still not very car-like. The air is bluer and darker and ashier than ever, and the buildings are almost lost in the fog.

They drive to the warehouse, which also looks much less like a warehouse and more like a great open-air maze, forbidding black walls of an endless labyrinth instead of industrial steel and glaring fluorescent lights. The souls also look less human, like wisps of ethereal matter, some with more distinction than others and some, well, monstrous. Chloe can also see what she couldn't before: the underling demons prowling along the line and making sure nobody tries to escape or make a run for it, administering a few jabs with the pitchfork for emphasis. The air is cold and cracked and sour, and the wind is raw and blistering. Chloe can barely walk straight against the force of it; she needs Lucifer to break it so she can be pulled along in his slipstream. It is a downright battle to get into the office, and she is decidedly shaken by the time they do. "Yeah. Okay. Like you said. This place isn't Los Angeles."

"No. No, it decidedly is not." He is examining the two doors, both of which are ornate and old and framed in carved, leering gargoyles. The office itself now looks like Vlad Dracula's remote tower keep, rather than the stylish modern setup Chloe first encountered, dank and drafty and dark. He's doing something with a key, testing to see if he can turn it, as she hugs herself and shivers and hops from foot to foot. For such a legendarily hot place, Hell is in fact colder than Siberia. (Well, the Cubs _did_ win the World Series. Maybe that explains it.)

At last, with a bump and a screech, Lucifer gets the key to turn, and the door to Purgatory grates open. He looks at her. "This is a test run only, Detective. If we can't get through, we'll go back to Plan A. If we can, and I don't have something disagreeable happen to me. . ." He pauses. "There's also the fact that souls don't go back to hell, after they've made it to Purgatory. There might not be any way for us to get back, either. Are you sure about this?"

"Why would we need to get back here?" Chloe hugs herself harder. "You're the one saying I need to go. And trust me, I get it now."

"Yes, but. . ." Lucifer hesitates. "I sent Malcolm to tell Amenadiel to bring something that I would _really_ rather not fall into the wrong hands. Mind, that's assuming Amenadiel doesn't disappoint me horribly, which he has a track record of doing, so. . . bloody hell, I don't know which one is more likely. If I go for one, I can't do the other. Or you go alone, Detective."

"I'm not going through that door unless you come with me." Chloe folds her arms. "What did you send Malcolm to tell Amenadiel to get? I didn't ask, but – "

Lucifer looks hounded. "My sister's knife. Azrael's."

It takes Chloe a moment to connect the relevant pieces. Then she says, _"That?"_

"Yes. That. Hence why if I go through that door, I don't know if I can get back, and if it ends up in someone's nasty little paws – "

"You said Amenadiel was supposed to bring it," Chloe points out. "Wouldn't he be a safe person to keep hold of it, until your. . . sister arrived to pick it up for herself? Or. . ." She looks at his face. "You don't quite trust Amenadiel to handle it, do you?"

"I already had to pry him from Mum's clutches once. Pardon me if I'm not entirely confident that he won't arse up a second – well, second millionth – time, really."

"Are you just making excuses to stay behind?" Chloe cocks her head. "Lucifer, I said we – "

"Bloody hell!" He whirls on her. "Detective, you – you know who I am. And who you are, and at last, _where_ we are. You have to go. If you can get any kind of communication with heaven, ask for my other sister. Gabriel. Of all my siblings, she's the only one who might care at all about a human woman. I'll stay here, and if Amenadiel arrives with the knife, we'll handle things and I'll come back to join you. That's how it has to be."

"No." Chloe doesn't budge. "No, it's not."

Lucifer is exasperated. "Go through the door. This was your bloody idea."

"Only if you promise me we'll see each other again."

He looks at her wearily. "You know I don't lie to you, Chloe."

That rocks her again, as badly as when he suggested staying behind last night. She bites her lip, glancing away, reminding herself that she has a duty to do as he says, and go home. She can't leave Trixie without her mother, she can't just walk away from her life, just on the vain hope of saving something that might already be long gone. She should be grateful for the time she's had with Lucifer, and accept that there won't be any more of it. Or at best, maybe there will be. If. If. If. And for someone as innately pessimistic and cautious as her, that is a bad bet to take.

"Please," she says. Her voice cracks. "I don't want to go alone."

He considers her for a long, weighty moment. Then he says, "I might be able to go with you a short way. Not as far as you need to go, but some. There will be a point where I have to turn back, but I can at least see that you make it over."

"All right." Chloe swallows. "Let's do that. Please, Lucifer."

He thinks about it another moment, then nods, once and tersely. Pries the door open further, with a scrape and a screech, and stands there facing it. Then without looking over at her, silently holds out his hand. She steps up, and takes it.

They back up, take a running start, and hurl themselves through.

It feels like being stuck in an industrial washing machine, tumbling around and around, or being caught in a ship as it's breaking up and sinking, cold black water blasting everywhere, choking, drowning. She has lost hold of Lucifer, and flails out, trying not to panic, until she whirls around once more, does an inelegant somersault, and sprawls out on something that tastes of mud and pine and sand. Spits and spits, soaking and shivering, as she raises her head and sees that she's washed up on a long, empty stretch of beach, with a thick forest above her. The light is grey, neither dark nor light, just that steady steel color. It's the same to every direction.

Chloe sits up slowly, grimacing. "Lucifer?"

No answer. She can see something dark further down the beach, which might be some rotten log, or which might be someone else. She gets up and jogs toward it, breaking into a full-out run when she realizes that it is in fact him. She kneels at his side, rolling him onto his back; he's unconscious, blood trickling down his face from a nasty gash on his temple. "Lucifer?" Oh god. He's breathing, right? Yes, all right, he's breathing. "Lucifer!"

It takes some increasingly panicked shaking and shouting, but he finally comes around, dazed and woozy. His eyelashes flutter as he struggles to focus on her, and he grimaces. "Well. I do sincerely _hope_ I never have to do that again."

"You're okay. You're okay." Chloe slides an arm beneath his back and carefully helps him sit upright, as they survey their surroundings. "So, this is Purgatory?"

"I take it. As I said, I haven't been." Lucifer pushes himself to his feet with a grimace, brushing sand off his impeccably cut trousers. "Not doing any favors for my wardrobe, either. Miserable bloody place. What do they all do, sit in ashrams in the woods and contemplate their poor life choices? Actually sounds worse than hell, if you ask me."

"I don't know. Come on, let's go." Chloe's instinct is to take charge, to do something, to lead the way, even if she has absolutely no idea whatsoever what that currently is. They traipse up the beach, wet and shivering, and duck in among the trees. It's eerily quiet, no birds or animals or distant cracks or even the sigh of the wind, and they look at each other for a long moment. Then, with no other apparent option, they start to walk.

Time is already a slippery concept down here, but Chloe soon loses it entirely. The woods never change in the slightest degree, just identical stands of ash-grey trunks with that grey light slanting through. The ground is perfectly flat, if rather squashy and boggy. It never goes up and it never goes down. You could walk for miles like this, and maybe they do, maybe that's the point, the souls have to cross it for as many years of sins as they have to make up. _Limbo_ is apparently an incredibly suitable description. At least things _happen_ in hell. Nothing happens here.

Chloe is fairly fit, but she's still a police detective, not an endurance athlete, and after God knows how long of monotonous, endless trudging, she can feel herself starting to flag. No use waiting for day or night, as those clearly don't exist here either. No way to tell if they're making progress, or how much further they might have to go in order to send up a flare to heaven. She's freezing and hungry and tired and she's starting to shiver so hard her teeth clatter, biting her tongue until she tastes blood. "Lucifer, c-can we stop?"

He turns around, takes one look at her, and practically runs to her side, pulling off his suit jacket and wrapping it around her, tugging her against his chest. She buries herself into him, too cold to care about decorum or distance, until she can finally speak somewhat normally again. "Do we stay here for a little while, or do we. . . do we go on?"

"I think we should go back." A sharp frown creases Lucifer's dark brows. "Either that, or we won't be able to make any more progress while I'm with you – I've hit my limit. You're a much better person than me, you can go further. But there is no way to know unless we split up."

Chloe doesn't like that at all. "Maybe we should just both go back. We've tried the Purgatory plan, we know we can't get out this way. Return to hell and wait for Amenadiel."

"We know _we_ can't get out this way," Lucifer agrees. "Maybe _you_ can."

"Lucifer – "

"Detective." He steps back from her, holding her by the shoulders. "You have to bloody try, all right? Think of Trixie. Maze. Dan. Ella. Linda. They're all waiting for you. They'll take care of you. Not that you need it, of course, but they'll, well. They'll be there for you. Whether or not Amenadiel comes through, we don't need to risk your fate on it. Please. Please go on."

Chloe's eyes sting traitorously. She raises a hand and rubs them, but it won't stop. "This sounds an awful lot like goodbye, Lucifer."

He opens, then shuts, his mouth. "Well," he says hoarsely. "Maybe it is."

They stand there staring at each other for a moment longer, until she throws herself into his arms and hugs him as hard and fiercely and desperately as she can, as they rock back and forth on the spot, as his breathing is none too steady either as he rests his chin on her head. Finally he steps back again, gives her a little shake, then turns her around, facing forward into the trees. "Go," he says. "Go on, Chloe. Don't look back. Don't you bloody dare look back."

It takes all her strength not to do it right then, for one more glimpse of his face, just one more moment to burn on her soul. She gulps an unsteady breath, clutching his jacket around herself. There could be a change in the light ahead, as if it might be slightly brighter and stronger, but she can't be sure. After the same monotony for so long, it might be just her brain playing tricks. Oh god. Oh god, she can't, she can't, she _can't –_

Lucifer gives her a gentle push from behind. His voice is a whisper.

" _Go."_

And at last, as he asks, Chloe Decker does.


	8. Canto VIII

**Canto VIII**

Purgatory is a pain in the ass.

Not even for the previous reasons, where it was that unchanging, bleak, monotonous grey netherwhere, but precisely since it now _has_ changed. Chloe almost misses the plains, because at least those were flat. This new configuration is more like the Sierra Nevada, the rugged wilderness around Lake Tahoe where every so often, some ill-prepared tourist from SoCal wanders in and turns up dead. (Now there's a comforting thought.) It's steep and slick and broken rock that requires hands and feet to climb, wandering on a precipitous ridge above an endless sea of fog, twisted black trees piercing the veil here and there and then vanishing again like gremlins when she tries to get a good look. At least she's working hard enough that she can't think, or at least not much, about what it felt like to leave Lucifer behind. She wouldn't, she never would have, but he insisted, he _insisted,_ this was her idea in the first place, and if Purgatory calculates the weight of your sins, it would react to him as if he was an anchor around her ankle, dragging her back under the dark water. It's wrong, it's never been more wrong, she wants to find the mechanism and rip it apart with her bare hands and change it – but for all her pretensions and dangerous fantasies, she does not actually make the rules around here.

Chloe finally reaches the summit of whatever endless mountain she's been climbing, wheezing as she pushes her hair out of her face, unable to repress a sudden fear that she'll be knocked straight back down like Sisyphus, and have to haul ass all the way up again, as many times as it takes until her hopefully venial sins are expiated. But she is allowed to remain king (or queen, rather) of the mountain. The wind whisks her, where there didn't used to be any wind before, sharp and clean. There seems to be a crack in the clouds above. A little touch of heavenly light, perhaps? Does she have a flare gun she can use to send a signal to Upstairs, or is she just supposed to be vacuumed up to the pearly gates?

"Hello?" She's briefly reminded of when she first arrived in hell, calling out for someone, anyone. Lucifer told her to ask for his sister Gabriel, but she's pretty sure she can't just press a button on a celestial intercom and call up whichever of the archangels she wants, NBD. She's obviously not an expert on the subject, but she doesn't actually want to run into any of them without Lucifer around. They are, to use the technical term, bad motherfuckers.

Chloe considers the irony of wanting the Devil to protect her from heaven, then shakes her head. Scrambles up onto the highest bit of ground she can find, where there's definitely a slight golden gleam on the rocks. Cups her hands around her mouth, and yells into the sky. "HELLO!"

She can hear it echoing off into the fey, desolate wilderness. No answer.

Great. Just great. She left Lucifer behind _and_ she's going to wander around Purgatory in circles for all eternity, or at least a good few years. Chloe knows he can't make it to her here, and she doubts she can find her way back to him. Her plan was that she'd find Gabriel, explain the problem, then ask her to go to hell and get Lucifer out too, but she can only think now how absurdly, ridiculously, _mortally_ naïve that is. Gabriel might not even be able to get in there. There are rules of existence that even God and the angels can't break. Gabriel can't fish her miscreant little brother out of the place her Father decreed he go forever, on a whim.

Lucifer knew this. Of course he did.

He quietly gave himself up to save her, damned himself to an eternity in Hell, and never even said a word. Other than that one. Begging her. _Go._

Chloe's eyes sting, and she rubs her knuckles over them, furious with herself. She knows she has to try again, one more in the long and depressing litany of humans calling out for help from the heavens and never getting any, has to see if she can make it back home, the reason Lucifer urged her so fiercely to go. But she can't imagine life without him. It's just an utter, complete, total leaden misery, like wanting to lie down and not wake up for five years, see if the world has somehow sorted itself out when you do. She has to be brave. He would have wanted it.

Chloe shrinks from the idea of never seeing him again. It can't be. She doesn't accept it.

She will break all the damn rules herself, if she needs to. Never stopped him before.

She takes a deep breath and bellows, "YOU UP THERE!"

At last, there is some kind of response in the silent clouds above. Something shifts. A thin ray of sunlight falls on the rocks, and the air around her shifts and ripples. Then a moment later, Chloe is no longer standing on a desolate mountaintop. She is standing instead in a pit, a cistern of some kind with smooth dark walls, with brilliant white light overhead – like she fell into some trap in the jungle and is wondering just who exactly will be along to pull her out, which is in fact extremely accurate. She's maybe fifteen or twenty feet down, and she wonders if she could climb out. Those walls look slippery, but it might not be completely impossible.

She gives it a try, and promptly crashes down hard enough to crack her tailbone. Never mind that idea, then. Rubbing ruefully at the sore spot, she paces around, considering a different approach. Are they really going to let her get this close and then ignore her, or is this yet another of Purgatory's tricks, a puzzle she has to think her way out of? Literal light at the end of the tunnel – what do you do now? Test of worthiness? Grasp the Holy Grail and not get your face melted?

Try as she might, however, Chloe can't figure out what she's supposed to do. Except for one, possibly. She's not religious (ironically, considering her current situation) but she seems to recall there are plenty of lines about casting out Satan, about renouncing the devil and his temptations, all that. Is that what they're waiting for? Announce that she rejects Lucifer and everything he is, and then they'll lower the golden ladder and welcome her into heaven?

"If that's the case, you're going to be waiting a long time," she says out loud. "Sorry."

The light continues to shine down, bright and empty. It doesn't quite touch the depths of the pit, and she shivers, trying to get into the warmth, but it always just shifts away. Really? Fine. She is just a girl, standing in front of (or rather at the bottom) of a giant hole, asking it to help her.

"HEY!" she yells. "I WANT TO TALK TO SOMEONE!"

Don't they all, and there is absolutely no reason for her request to be any different. But finally, the light stirs and shifts, and she can just make out the shape of a figure overhead, a human figure (or at least, human- _like)._ Then the black walls of the pit shimmer and shift, and the next second, Chloe is sprawling on grass. The air is light and warm and soft and _pure,_ somehow, and then someone is offering her a hand, which she takes, and helping her up. She struggles to her feet, panting thanks, and only then realizes that the person is Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

"Oh." Chloe's eyes go very wide. "Oh my god. I – Dr. King. I'm – I. Wow. I'm. . . okay then."

He smiles faintly. "I like to come out to the pit every so often," he says, apparently by way of explanation. "Give the souls arriving from Purgatory that final lift. I like them to know they're free at last."

Chloe opens and shuts her mouth, because there is nothing you can say to that, as she looks around. If he's here, and it feels like this, and it _looks_ like this, it must in fact be heaven. At the moment, it has the appearance of a perfect summer afternoon, one of those where the sky is iridescent blue and the trees are green and the sun slants golden, where it's just hot enough to bask without burning, the one where the evening lasts forever and is violet and rose and cobalt, when you have a barbecue out back and kids play in the yard and you rock on the porch swing with lemonade and feel like you're part of the fabric of forever and a day. They look to be in some kind of city park, though much cleaner and quieter than any park Chloe has ever been to in L.A. She is dirty and grubby from her endless hike through Purgatory, and feels self-conscious. "I, um, Dr. King. I'd just like to say I'm very honored."

He nods graciously. "And you are?"

"My name is Chloe Decker. I'm a – I _was_ a police detective, in California. And then I met – well. It's a long story. Is there someone I can talk to? Who might, you know, have jurisdiction?"

MLK considers, then beckons to her. "We'll see. Come on."

Chloe trots shyly at his side as they start to walk, because really, what do you talk to him about? Ask him for the grand tour? It occurs to her that he was the one with that quote about how the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice. And the other ones about how only light can drive out dark, how only love can drive out hate. He was a Baptist preacher, wasn't he? Should she ask him what his theology holds about whether the Devil can be redeemed? He saw some of the absolute worst that men had to offer against their fellows, and how far they would go to keep them trodden down. Did he think that was Satan's work, or was he simply all too aware of just how rotten humanity could be? But he still felt there was hope. He still, well, had a dream.

Chloe doesn't feel qualified to broach this subject with him, especially since she knows that her experiences don't compare to his, or other people who have had much worse lives. After all, her own has been fairly charmed. An only child, born after her parents had been told they were infertile and would have to adopt or foster if they wanted kids – IVF wasn't really a thing in 1981. Given a comfortable middle-class upbringing, adored and doted on, never went wanting for food on the table or presents at Christmas or anything. The first real shock of her life was when her dad was killed. Keeping a belief in the existence of good and evil, in right and wrong, in all that – well, it's been tested, obviously, by working as a homicide detective for almost ten years in a place like Los Angeles. She has seen some messed-up shit. But it's never been driven home to her, it's never _mattered_ to her, until now. Until Lucifer.

She and her new friend, Martin Luther King Jr. (you know, the person you usually run into at the park) cross onto a pedestrian bridge that seems to span midair, blue sky and sunlight above and drifting clouds below. On the far side is. . . it's a city, and it briefly reminds her of the shadowed version of L.A. she created or experienced in hell, but that's where the resemblance ends. There are streets and cars and buildings and trees and shops, but it's again far cleaner and vibrant and _better_ than any human version. There is no trash blowing on the sidewalk, no bums looking for spare change. All the trees and flowers are in bloom, the fountains clear and bubbling, the public spaces impeccable, the buildings graceful and elegant, some combination of fancy old-world charm and modern high-rises. Everything shines ever so slightly silver. It's like when Dorothy gets to the Emerald City, and everything is so _green._

Chloe wonders, in that case, if she is also supposed to ignore the little man behind the curtain. Putting that thought aside, she walks faster, glancing around at the crowds. They look like people, except _happy._ Nobody is rushing to catch a bus they are late for, or shuffling to a job they hate, or arguing on their phone, or all the other small soul-crushing mundanities of daily existence. They're walking to enjoy the day, or to meet a friend at a sidewalk café, or to browse in a bookstore (they have passed one, a sprawling, beautiful old brownstone edifice, one of those miraculous literary wonderlands where you could get lost for _hours,_ and Chloe doesn't have time to read much, but even she would sacrifice a kidney to get into heaven's Barnes and Noble and have a look around). Nobody is hurting here. Nobody is lost.

MLK steers her to a small coffee shop at the end of the block, a bright and well-lit space with brick walls, white ceilings, and funky lamps. There are people on laptops, just as there would be in any coffee shop, sipping celestial lattes and cappuccinos and smiling as they work. If they wanted to write the Great American (or British, or whatever) Novel while they were alive, but never got the chance, now they're doing it. If they wanted to program this amazing app, or even get their hands on a computer for the first time, or whatever else, now they're doing it. Chloe has never been in a place that has this kind of energy, and it stuns and humbles her. She just wants to stand here and soak in it for hours. Cry and smile all at the same time.

MLK has a word with the barista at the counter, who disappears into the back. He gets a coffee (money doesn't seem to be a thing here) and asks her if she wants anything, but she can just shake her head dumbly. He says someone is coming to meet her, and asks if there's anything else he can do. She says there's not, and shakes his hand once more, hoping against hope she'll be allowed to remember this when she gets back to earth. Then he nods to her again, and heads out.

Chloe perches on one of the stools by the coffee bar, too excited and anxious to settle. She keeps glancing up every time someone walks by outside, wondering who on earth (or rather, heaven) is coming to see her – surely even MLK doesn't have a direct line to the Big Man himself? Someone from the seraphim security force, checking that she was stamped in properly? Is she the first living person (or maybe second, after Dante – she would have said it was just a literary metaphor, before it happened to her) to make it through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise? Is she –

The bell over the door jangles, and John Decker walks into the coffee shop.

For the longest, most impossible moment, Chloe cannot believe her eyes. Is, in fact, terrified to. She didn't believe in heaven and hell before, but of course everyone hopes their loved one has actually made it to a better place, that there's some rhyme and reason and cold, cold comfort to be had out of the chaos and heartbreak of losing them. He looks just like Dad, out of his LAPD uniform, in flannel shirt and jeans, the way he dressed when he was puttering around the house doing improvement projects on the weekends, recruiting her to help. Mom would be off at some con or audition or other, and he would wake her up with pancakes, promise ice cream when they were done. She learned a lot about fixing things, and the world in general, on those weekends.

"D. . ." Chloe can't get the word out. She stands up, knees shaky. "Dad?"

He hears her voice, and his head snaps around. He looks just as stunned. _"Monkey?"_

That, that word, the pet name she's always called Trixie, does it. She bursts into tears, the nineteen-year-old aspiring actress who never got to say goodbye and not the hard-bitten thirty-five-year-old homicide detective, and runs to him. He catches her, hugging her so hard she can't breathe, gasping a laugh, grabbing her shoulders to look at her, hugging her again, laughing and making that weird breathy sound your parents make when they're trying not to cry in front of their children, until at last he pushes her back again, and an expression of horrible fear crosses his face. "Wait. Chloe. Chloe – you're not – please tell me you're not – "

"I'm not dead." Chloe grasps hold of his hands on her shoulders. "I p-promise. It's a long story, but I'm not dead."

John Decker just stares at his daughter, totally disbelieving, radiant with delight, the one gift even heaven wasn't supposed to give him. Chloe wonders what it's like, when you're the first one to get here. You must be very happy to live in this place, because who wouldn't be, but you still have to wait for your loved ones – knowing that when they _do_ get here, they're dead, they have left their old life behind forever. You see each other again, here, to start over, but with this bittersweetness. (Or if your family was the last thing you wanted, you don't.) Is it still heaven, when you're apart? How do you handle that burden? Do you just forget?

In any event, it doesn't matter just now. John hugs her again, and they stand there rocking back and forth, crying and grinning, until they finally pull apart. His eyes are brimming, he is burning with questions, for all the missed sixteen years, for all the years more. "Monkey, I. . . I. . . you're here? How can you be _here,_ if you're not dead? Are you sure?"

"I – pretty sure." Chloe hauls in a deep, shaky breath. "Can you, I don't know, take me to dinner somewhere, and we'll talk about it?"

John wipes his eyes discreetly, agrees, and shows her out. They stroll along the sidewalk arm in arm, as the shadows are lengthening and a beautiful, mellow dusk is starting to fall over the Silver City – no rush hour, no honking, no traffic jams. The warm evening smells like gardenias from the hanging boxes. Chloe is afraid to let go of him, as if he might suddenly vanish. Has to keep looking over at him. Her heart feels like a flicked penny, spinning and spinning, fragile, fearing to fall.

They arrive at a restaurant in a few minutes – a charming wood-paneled, low-lit sort of place, nice but not too fancy. The waiter seems to know John, gets them a booth in the corner, as they look at the menu. No prices, just whatever you want to eat. The people who work here aren't slaving for sub-minimum wage in a hot kitchen, juggling plates in vain hope of tips. They're the people who loved the food business in life, genuinely loved it, and see their heaven as having the best and most delicious restaurant ever. Just the way they want it.

John and Chloe order drinks and appetizers, clink their glasses, and toast. Then with that done, Chloe is faced with the mammoth task of possibly trying to explain in any shape or form to her dad why she's here. Given that they are literally sitting in heaven, the other locales of the story won't be too improbable, but the rest. . . hoo boy. Chloe surreptitiously knocks on the underside of the table for good luck (does that work here?) and launches into the saga.

When she finishes, their entrees having arrived by this time, John is looking at her rather squiggle-eyed. It is his turn to open and shut his mouth. "I'm sorry," he says at last, in full Overprotective Father mode. "Did I hear that right? You're dating the _Devil?"_

"Dad." Chloe flushes. "I'm not _dating_ the Devil. I. . ." She trails off. "Never mind. Lucifer is, he's. . . it's complicated. It took me a while to warm up to him too."

"Warm up to him? Is that a hell joke?" Her father raises an eyebrow. "Look, Chloe, I know I wasn't there for you, but please, I don't want this to be something where you end up with some loser because of – "

"Lucifer is not a loser. He's. . ." Oh man. There is _no_ good way to explain Lucifer Morningstar in under a minute to your politely and openly skeptical father. At last, she says the only thing that makes sense. "He's the other half of me."

John Decker raises the other eyebrow. "And what about this Dan?"

"Dan is. . ." Talk about being thrown into the deep end of the conversational pool. She struggles to explain their marriage and divorce, how they've managed to continue to be friends and co-workers, and then starts to choke up as she tells her father about Trixie. How much she would give anything, anything at all, for Trixie to be able to meet him, how they'd love each other. Why she calls Trixie monkey. Says Mom is doing fine, because Mom does. Hasn't remarried, if he was wondering. Misses him too. They both do.

"Well," John says at last. "Joe Fields still in jail?"

"Joe Fields. . ." Chloe isn't sure she's ready for that, not now. Not with everything else at stake. "I'll tell you later, all right? Dad, I. . . look, I know you don't approve and it's not like I'm asking you to, but we need to find a way to go back and get Lucifer out of hell. Please."

"We need to find a way to go back and get the Devil out of hell." He repeats it back at her, so she can hear how ludicrous it sounds. "Chloe, honey, you know I want to help you, but this – "

"Come on, Dad! What happened to Decker Can-Do? You know, our whole thing for those weekends? Lucifer gave himself up to get me out of hell. He never said a word, even though he knew exactly what was going to happen. Now he's stuck down there, in a place he never wanted to be, in a life he never chose for himself. I know it's a reach, but. . . please help me."

John considers her, troubled and concerned and tender, obviously struggling with a father's impulse to tell his beloved only daughter that she can have whatever she wants, that he'll do anything for her. And clearly his reservations don't apply to helping _her_ , but the fact that she is asking him to possibly piss off his landlord – you know, _God –_ and go haul his delinquent son's butt out of the place where he was chucked, in the original and defining downfall of the world, several millennia ago. Chloe's dad is a cop, just like her. He doesn't go for whatever bill of goods the bad guys try to sell. Everybody has an excuse. Everyone has a sob story.

"Are you really sure about this, monkey?" he says at last, before catching himself. "I mean, Chloe. You're a grown woman now, I shouldn't call you that if you don't – "

"No." Chloe's voice wobbles slightly. "It's okay, Dad. You can call me that."

"Monkey, then." He takes a bracing sip of his wine, clearly needing it. "Obviously, when you're here, you know things about the world that living people don't, so it's not that I'm surprised that he actually exists. I just. . . my little girl? With the _Devil?"_

"I can guess you're thinking that he tries to order me and dominate me and take charge of things, and I have to do whatever he says?" Chloe says wryly. "I can assure you, it's entirely the other way around. _Entirely."_

"That's my girl." He grins, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes; he's not convinced, but he's willing to hear her out. "Is it ironic if I tell you to give him hell?"

"Probably, but he expects it. And in this case, he doesn't need any more of it. Just. . . give him a chance, Dad. He will make five horrendously inappropriate comments in five minutes, be unaware of the rules of polite behavior, tell you about his drug habit and/or how many threesomes he's had, probably project some of his issues with his dad onto you, look at you like you just sank his battleship, and pout. And then he'll stay. And stay. And do anything for you, no matter what it does to him. And probably never understand it half the time. And be loyal and honest and faithful as. . .well. . ." She trails off again. "As hell."

"Not something I'd thought anyone would say about the Devil," John Decker observes, picking up knife and fork and digging into his supper, as Chloe follows suit. He looks at her shrewdly, recognizing that tone of voice. "You really like this idiot, don't you?"

"I know you have a lot of time to make up on not being able to give my boyfriends the ninth degree. If I agree that you can rake Lucifer over the coals, so to speak, when we meet him, do you agree to help me?"

Her father considers her for a long moment. "I don't know how, monkey," he says at last. "I don't know how we'd do it. But. . . you promised me a good raking. I'll hold you to it."

"It'll be good for him." Chloe imagines the look on Lucifer's face, and then realizes she's imagining seeing him again, opening that door back into that place and finding him, and has to grip her knees hard under the table. "I promise."

"All right." Her dad hesitates a final time, then raises his wine glass. "Decker Can-Do."

"Decker Can-Do," Chloe says, clinks it, and they drink.

It's late when they leave the restaurant, but she takes it there are no muggers stalking the alleys for them to worry about. They walk back to John's place, which is a neat little brick bungalow on a quiet street, with palm trees in the yard. It looks familiar to Chloe, until she realizes it's the house where they lived for the first seven years of her life, until they moved to be closer to Hollywood for her mom's acting stints. It brings tears to her eyes, again, to think that in heaven, where you can have anything you want, this is the eternal residence he has chosen for himself. That the happiest he has ever been is the place where they were living when she was born, where they first were a family. That he doesn't need anything else than that.

They open the door (it isn't locked, it doesn't need to be) and head inside. She doesn't remember it exactly, since she was so young when they left, but there's enough to give her a sense of something close to vertigo. There are pictures of her and her mom all over the house. It's filled with the things John Decker likes, his awards from the force, his books and records and guitar, until she wants to tell him that Lucifer plays piano and they should have a jam session. Until she remembers, after that, that that is literally impossible. Her dad can't go back to earth, and Lucifer can't come to heaven. She can't let herself lose sight of the reality, the way she did back in hell. She is once more going to have to say goodbye to her dad, really and for good, and she isn't in the least ready to do that. Not yet. Not when they have so much lost time.

John shows her down the hall to her old room, as Chloe walks in and shuts the door and then slides down it to the floor. Oh god. Yes. This is what it looked like. This is how it smelled. This was the place she sometimes dreamed about when she dreamed about being home, for no apparent reason, even though she hadn't lived here for so long. It's not quite the same; it looks like a woman's room, not a little girl's, missing her overflowing Barbie and Hot Wheels (her dad believed very strongly in buying her both) collections and her posters and her drawings. But there's still one of them, sitting on the desk. Chloe remembers the afternoon she drew it, lying on the old linoleum kitchen floor with her crayons. Her and her dad. They're both wearing cop uniforms. It was part of a school assignment. What do you want to be when you grow up.

She looks at it, picks it up, presses it to her chest, and quietly, silently, thoroughly breaks down.

* * *

She feels somewhat better the next morning, waking up with the translucently beautiful sunrise spilling through the venetian blinds. She feels utterly and completely at peace, in fact, and it takes her a moment to remember why. Then she sits bolt upright, practically leaps out of bed, and hurries down the hall to the bathroom. The shower is finicky; she doesn't know why she remembers that, but she does, and she jiggles it to the perfect temperature, where a centimeter in either direction will render it either boiling lobster or Arctic snowstorm. Her dad could have fixed this, of course, whether manually or because heaven would let him, but he must like it this way. Must want to keep it as close as to how it was on earth as he can.

Chloe stands in the spray, rinsing Purgatory off her, until the hot water runs out (as noted, not a problem she encountered in hell) and she gets out, dries, and dresses. There are some feminine bits and bobs under the sink, as if her dad is keeping them there just in case she or her mom should show up unexpectedly one day. He did, after all. John Decker is nothing if not prepared.

She heads to the kitchen and finds him cooking breakfast, their Hawaiian-bread and egg special sandwiches. Takes a moment to breathe it in, deep and rattling and raw, until she scrubs at her cheeks, summons up a grin, and sits down. "Hey, Dad. So what's the plan?"

"I've been making a few calls." He flips the sandwich. "Took me a while, but, well, I got through. We have a meeting this morning, so eat up."

"Meeting?" Chloe's stomach does a somersault. "With. . . who, exactly?"

"Not sure. I said my name was John Decker, I had a favor to ask, and they started listening." He shrugs. "Guess your old man's still got that investigative mojo, huh?"

"Yeah." Chloe starts to eat distractedly, heart fluttering. It is all very well and good to _plan_ to save your not-entirely-but-also-not- _not_ -boyfriend (the Devil) from hell, with the aid of his powerful, estranged, and wacky family (God and His angels) but actually doing it is nerve-wracking. Just like working a high-stakes case, she tells herself. She's done plenty of those.

After breakfast, her dad puts on a tie, she slaps on some lipstick (you should not look like a scrub when asking the ruler of all creation for a hand) and they head out. Her dad still drives that vintage Chevy he was usually tinkering with, except this version of it actually runs. It's a fairly short trip to the place they have been apparently sent, which looks like a large old house set back from the road, up a long, leafy drive. They park at the top, get out, and head to the wraparound porch, knocking and waiting.

Presently, someone opens the door. "Yes. Hello?"

"Hello." John clears his throat. "I'm Officer John Decker, and this is my daughter, Detective Chloe Decker. We were told someone would see us."

"Oh. Yes, yes, come in." The person – God's current office assistant? Is that a job? Do they rotate, so He can speak individually, informally to someone He finds interesting? – steps back and shows them into the expansive, lovely, impeccably decorated house. He asks if they want refreshments, and they tell him they've already eaten, perching tensely on the couch and looking up at the ceiling every time it creaks. Is God Himself going to come downstairs in a bathrobe after His shower, thumbing through the sports pages of the heavenly newspaper? Is this – was this – Lucifer's childhood home? After Chloe slept in hers last night? It almost feels too much.

The person who finally appears in the doorway, however – causing both John and Chloe to spring to their feet as if they were sitting on a hedgehog – is much younger and much more female. She looks like a Nordic supermodel, with a sheet of long blonde hair, cheekbones that could cut a wheel of cheese, blue eyes, icy-pale skin, and a certain glow about her as she folds in her white-and-gold wings. Even without them, it would be a dead giveaway that she's an angel, God's daughter. Deputizing for her father, come to meet another father and daughter, perhaps?

"Ah." Chloe clears her throat. It's not like her to be tongue-tied, but this is, after all, completely unprecedented. "Hi? We're the Deckers?"

At that, something just barely perceptible passes over the angel's lovely face, there and gone in an instant. Almost disquiet, or. . . awe? Either way, she gathers herself, and smiles. "I am Gabriel. You are welcome in my Father's house."

That's a good start, at least. Or so Chloe hopes. "Gabriel. Hi. I'm – I'm Chloe." She feels almost too informal, addressing this luminous being by her first name – should she ask if she prefers Ms. God instead? What _is_ her last name, or is that only something you need on earth? Probably beside the point. "I, um. I know your brother. The, uh. The. . . one who's not here."

Gabriel looks at her sharply, which feels like being run through with a glass blade. Then she blinks, and stares. "Sam? You know _Sam?"_

"What?" Chloe is completely baffled, as well as suddenly wondering if there is _another_ fallen angel that Heaven has happened to misplace. "I meant. . ." She doesn't want to say his name aloud, just in case that's what brings God storming in. "The one who lives. . . below."

"Sam. Samael. You know Samael?" Gabriel blinks for a moment more, until it occurs to her. "Yes. You're the human. Of course you do."

"Samael? Is that his. . ." Of course he wasn't born _Lucifer._ Became that, and embraced it, and changed, and fell. "Is that his real name?"

"It was his name, yes." Gabriel crosses to the sofa across from them and sits down, beckoning Chloe to do the same; she complies, feeling as awkward as a ten-ton hippopotamus compared to the angel. "It's. . . not any more, of course, but that is how I always knew him. So, Chloe Decker. Tell me why you're here."

This is just as much a saga as the first time, she hasn't managed to condense it down at all, and it's hard when you don't want to say "Lucifer." But when she finally decides that if God can't even handle hearing His own son's name spoken anywhere in His house, He is just as much a jerk as Lucifer always thought, Chloe gives that up and just goes for broke. It sounds increasingly crazy even to her.

A faint line appears between Gabriel's perfect brows by the time it's finished. She steeples her fingers together, then leans back on the couch, as if weighing up her response. "Well," she says at last. "That is certainly quite a story."

"I'm not making it up. I'm sitting here, how could I possibly – "

"I don't think you're making it up." The angel holds up an elegant hand. "It's just. . . quite a bit to take in all at once, even for me. You're clever little creatures, aren't you? Humans?"

Chloe is somewhat miffed to be referred to as if she was a prize zoo exhibit, even if Gabriel's tone is fascinated, not condescending. She supposes that is what they are, for an immortal being like this, who has never lived in the human world the way Lucifer has and knows only the good ones, and that probably still at a considerable remove – the President's daughter doesn't just stroll out of the White House and mix with the commoners, after all (especially these days, Christ). There are walls, protections, protocols. The Way Things Are Done.

Chloe looks the archangel Gabriel in the eye and says, "So?"

Gabriel doesn't answer for a moment longer. Then she rises gracefully to her feet and says only, "Let me call my sister."

And that is how, a few minutes later, they are standing on God's well-kept front lawn (Chloe keeps glancing up, hoping to see the curtains twitch aside – is He standing up there in his room, watching them?) as a sporty black car revs up the drive (the newcomer would definitely get along with Lucifer) guns to a halt, and the literal Angel of Death, for that is who it has to be, steps out. In comparison to her sunlit sister, she looks like an ancient Persian goddess, with an ink-black braid, rich golden skin, depthless dark eyes, and wings like a cross-section of the deepest evening sky, unalleviated by any stars. Chloe wants to ask when she's driving when she could clearly fly, or probably just wish herself from one place to another, but no, absolutely not, she is not getting on this woman's bad side. She knows Maze, she's used to Maze, but compared to this sleek, deadly, beautiful jaguar, Maze is a harmless, spitting house cat. If this is what it takes to save Lucifer, then this is what it takes, but yeah. Holy shit.

Gabriel says something to her sister that Chloe doesn't catch. Azrael whirls on them in a smooth, brusque movement, whisking her wings in. She surveys them up and down, not looking particularly impressed. Not openly derisive, either – almost unreadable, opaque, unmoved. She has literally seen every human who has ever lived, and she will see them all in the future. When it's over, when the curtains are drawn, that's her job. Nearly as rewarding as running hell, probably. She and Lucifer might share much more than a predilection for stylish automobiles.

"So," Azrael says at last. Her voice is rich and husky, like cigarette smoke breathed through deep red lipstick, a glass of stiff whisky and the bite of an invitingly sharp knife. "You're her?"

"I guess I am, yeah." She was nervous around Gabriel, she's terrified around Azrael, but Chloe is still not a quitter. Never has been. "Nice to meet you. I'm Chloe."

Azrael looks her up and down once more. "Thought you'd be taller."

That is a strange thing to say, and coming from anyone else it would be rude, especially meeting your brother's not-not girlfriend (God, she needs to come up with something more economic – does _He_ have any ideas?) However, the fact that it is the fucking Angel of Death saying this makes it strange. Why would Azrael have thought about her, this random human, in any capacity, or formed any idea of what she would be like? Do they know their estranged brother is semi-dating, or at least very attached, to this human? Oh lord, is Chloe family gossip at God's Thanksgiving dinner (or, you know, whatever the heavenly equivalent is?)

"Well," she says at last, trying to dispel the awkwardness. "I'm, well, I'm not. I have to admit, I'm not very clear on what's going on. Did Gabriel tell you – "

"She told me," Azrael says curtly. The Angel of Death clearly does not do small talk. "I'm the only one of us who can travel between here, earth, and below. So yes, I could take you back. I'm not sure, however, why you'd want to go."

"Leave that to me." Chloe thinks for a moment that this is probably likewise rude, not to mention she'd have to tell Azrael if she asked. But if she wastes her time worrying what these women – _archangels,_ beings so beyond her level in any shape or form – think of her, whether they're judging her as being not sufficient (or tall enough) for their brother, even if they haven't spoken to him in centuries, they'll never get anywhere. "Are you willing to do it?"

Azrael hesitates fractionally. "I can get you to hell, yes. The rest is up to you. Neither Gabriel nor I can go with you. You'd have to do it alone."

Chloe's about to say that fine then, all she needs is the ride and she'll figure out the rest, but her dad clears his throat. "I'm going with her."

"You're dead, human. You lived a good life. This is your reward. You don't want to go there."

"I want to go with my daughter anywhere she's going. Anywhere I can." John looks at her calmly. "That's what a good father does."

For the briefest moment, out of the corner of her eye, Chloe thinks she might finally see the curtain in the upstairs window flutter. She can't be sure.

"There's no guarantee you can get back here if you leave, you know," Azrael says. "You could be stuck there for eternity. It's much less pleasant."

"I'm willing to take that risk." John Decker throws back his shoulders and likewise looks the Angel of Death in the eye. "We both go."

"Dad," Chloe says in an undertone, grabbing his arm. "You don't have to do this. Your house, everything you have here – "

"Heaven is wonderful, honey." John looks down at her with the corners of his eyes crinkling in a crooked smile, just as she remembers. "Of course it is. But it's still just a place. And right now, for whatever little time it is, I have the chance, the _blessing,_ to be with you again, to help you, to fight with you, and you're crazy if you think I'm not going to take it. I don't care about the risk. We go together."

Too moved to speak, Chloe grasps harder, and he squeezes her hand. Then they turn to face Azrael, who appears to be waiting. "Well," she says. "Last chance to back out."

"Not happening." Chloe desperately wants to ask her why she's agreed to do this, what secret threads of communication have passed between the family – who, despite their celestial origins and the fact that they live in heaven and oversee the world, are still a family the same as any. Worse than some, even. Flawed and messy and imperfect and fractured and struggling, and even after so long, they still haven't found their way back to each other. "We're ready to go."

Azrael raises one eyebrow, as if impressed with their moxie despite herself. Then she shrugs, steps forward, and takes hold of each of their wrists, her grip cool and strong as iron. "Hold on," she says. "For you, this is going to be quite an experience."

Chloe starts to say something, answer by reflex –

– and then the bottom drops out from under the world.

If she had a voice, she'd be screaming, but she can't, because she has no breath. It's been driven out of her too fast and too far and too fully for that, plunging like a meteor, burning and burning, aware vaguely of the whirl of Azrael's midnight wings and the way the sky is crumpled like a piece of scrap paper. Until – the thought fights through the whirling, thundering chaos somehow – she wonders if it was remotely like this, when Lucifer fell. The way it keeps going and going, faster and faster, until you are certain that nothing but death could await you at the end, that nobody could survive. The earth screams past, and yet they keep on going, until she has lost track of whether she has a body of any kind and then –

With a jerk and a bump and a rush, they hit ground, roll, and Chloe can tell at once, by the witchy blue light, the drifting ash, and the freezing air, that they're back. It's odd that it feels almost familiar by now, as compared to her first arrival when everything was utterly incomprehensible, and once she gets her breath even marginally back, she struggles to her knees. "Okay. Well. Thanks for the ride, I guess we take it from here?"

No answer. At least, none from Azrael. She's nowhere to be seen.

"So this is hell." John gets up more slowly, looking around. "Nice place."

"Yeah," Chloe says dryly. "Really nice. It can grow on you, though."

Her dad gives her a sharp look, and she wants to bite her tongue. She needs to remember that it was a mistake giving into its seductive thrall the first time, and she is definitely not about to do it the second time (hopefully, at least). With a final look over her shoulder for Azrael, just in case, she beckons to him, already starting to shiver. "C-come on."

"Isn't it supposed to be hot?" John asks, as they trudge. "I thought that was its thing."

"Yeah, well, we all did." Chloe hugs herself, walking faster. God, why _is_ it so cold? It wasn't exactly summertime before, but now it's even worse. She needs to focus on what they are going to do, as it occurs to her too late that she should have asked Azrael about her knife, the whole reason Lucifer was going to stay behind in hell – to make sure it didn't fall into the wrong hands, if Amenadiel got his shit together and brought it as asked. But it's the same reason, as far as Chloe can tell, that Azrael and Gabriel couldn't come with them. They can't interfere in the human world. Azrael doesn't choose who dies, she just collects them. If she wants her blade back, she has to be sent to earth to get it; she can't just lark off on her own volition and pick it up. To a human, to someone so naturally used to making their own choices and deciding where to go and what to do, this sounds like a horribly raw deal. You're immortal if you're an angel, and you're also really sexy, but there is a terrible cost that comes with it. No wonder Lucifer decided to test the point of free will, the entire concept his dad came up with for humans, to compensate them for their mortality. Wanted his cake, and to eat it too. Sounds like Lucifer.

Lucifer. Chloe's pace quickens at the thought of seeing him again. Soon. She really wants to see him, she wants to see his face, even if this will be followed by her dad busting out the interrogation-of-the-murder-suspect routine (which will be fun, at least, to see Lucifer squirm). She wants to touch him, she wants to be in his arms, she wants (not that she dares to do this in front of her dad) to kiss him again. She wants him to know that she came back for him, that she was never going to just leave him here, that she has at least some of a plan – but what if he's horrified? What if he thinks that all she's done is to undo his sacrifice to get her out of here, and now she's dragged her father down with her? Once they have Azrael's blade _(if_ they can get Azrael's blade) then they can get out, and it's true that both Gabriel and Azrael, despite their stated policy of non-intervention, have seemed oddly willing to help the Deckers. They can't just be shuffling any old mortals down here, that's for sure. And so, while it's the literal hell of a gamble to take, that's what Chloe is betting on. Once she has Lucifer back, the blade contained, and Charlotte and Malcolm dealt with, she'll ask for the angel sisters, and they'll come back. Azrael will, at least. Whatever's going on, it's about more than just a favor for their brother.

Chloe and John walk for a while, as it's getting steadily darker, colder, and creepier. It wasn't exactly rolling out the welcome mat before, but this. . . Chloe can't believe she's familiar enough with hell by now to judge when it's different, but it's different. And not just that.

She stops in her tracks. Looks around. Frowns.

"Dad," she says quietly. "I think something's wrong."


	9. Canto IX

**Canto IX**

The only thing more unpleasant than getting into Purgatory is getting out of it. Once a soul comes here, for better or for worse, it is only supposed to move in one direction, and that is very much not the direction Lucifer is trying to go. As usual, that's him. Busy bee bolloxing up the bastard's big. . . he can't think of a synonym for "stupid plan" that starts with the letter b, and even in his extremity, he is annoyed that he cannot properly complete witty alliterative bon mots. At any rate, the point is that it is just like him to throw a monkey wrench in Dad's designs for things. It crosses his mind to wonder what happens if he can't get out at all. Sit here for a few thousand years and develop a deep appreciation for trees, fog, and rocks? Bloody hell. He'll drown himself first.

The image of Chloe, her face, how she looked when he told her to go, the way it felt when she took that first step away from him and did not look back – again, as he told her – hangs over him with every step he himself takes, feeling as if ten-ton weights have been chained around his ankles. Whether that is Purgatory trying to keep him here or a reflection of his own emotional state, he doesn't know. She's probably on her way to heaven by now, she might even be there. If so, even one member of his worthless family has to have decided to return her to Earth, haven't they? If nothing else, to rebuke Mum for unjustly dragging her to hell, when it was not decreed, according to the great Plan ™, either that she die or that she go to the Bad Place for it. Unless they know, of course, exactly what Chloe means to him, and are using her, one insignificant little human, to make a point about some divine protocol or other. His bloody father does that a lot.

 _Please,_ Lucifer thinks, grimacing, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. _Please, don't punish Chloe for my sake. Just get her home. Please. Please. Please._

After some minor eternity of endless trudging, he finally reaches the beach where they washed up in the first place. The iron-grey water does not look any more warm or welcoming than before, and Lucifer eyes it balefully, unable to work up any enthusiasm to again submerge himself (and his designer suit) in it. He could stand here and make a ruckus until someone opens the door from the hell side, as he advised Chloe to try with heaven, but he has a sneaking feeling that the Morrigan, at least, are perfectly happy to have him gone. They have their _own_ ideas about how hell should be run, and with Chloe, their new dark queen, they were finally getting the chance to try. He's grateful he got her away from those hags, at least. He was nearly too late.

Lucifer stands there a long moment more. Nothing brilliant has occurred to him, and he has just resigned himself to going bloody swimming, when the water starts to hiss and smoke, sending up plumes of white steam that grow thicker and thicker, veiling the drab grey world from sight. His feet leave the ground, he spins dizzily around and around while demons with red-hot pitchforks rip out his innards (he has a more than theoretical knowledge of what that feels like) and for a moment, he is completely weightless. Then he crashes flat on something hard with an extremely humiliating sound, and while he is thinking that the devil absolutely does _not_ return to hell by doing a faceplant and an oof, he sees a familiar pair of glossy black high heels click toward him. A manicured hand reaches down to help him, and his mother's voice says, "Oh, thank heavens. I didn't know if it would work. Honey, are you okay?"

"What did you – " Still feeling unpleasantly punched in the chest, Lucifer manages to sit upright with another grimace, ignoring her hand. He has a sense of distinct foreboding: they, after all, did not tell her where they were going or what they were doing. "Mother, what are you – "

"Getting you out of that horrible place, of course." Charlotte looks confused that he would even have to ask. "What's going on? Where's Chloe?"

"Gone," Lucifer says, with a certain grim satisfaction. "Out of your reach for good, Mum. So you can stop pretending that you ever actually wanted the best for us."

"But I do." Charlotte steps back as he gets to his feet, looking around. Yes, he's definitely back in hell. Wonderful, just bloody wonderful. "I knew something was wrong, so I came here and just started messing around a little. Then I saw you on the other side of the door, and had to try to get you out. I did, obviously, so now we can – "

"Came here and just started messing around?" This is not good. Lucifer has always known that his mother is powerful – she's the damn goddess of creation, after all, and unlike his father, she has no qualms about using it. But if she was able to pull someone from Purgatory back into hell without even really knowing what she was doing, that opens the door, quite literally, for far more. Maybe she can pull _all_ the souls in Purgatory back into hell, back to the torment and damnation they were supposed to have escaped. He's an angel – if she's strong enough to move him between realms, a few chump-change mortals aren't going to be a problem. She's been here by herself, examining everything, determined to learn the details of her prison. It took her two nights to absorb an entire law school curriculum. Whatever she's done now –

"So," Lucifer says, forcing himself to keep a casual tone, even as he knows the answer. "No chance Amenadiel has, er, popped by with anything, is there?"

"No, your brother isn't here yet." Charlotte links her arm with his, escorting him away from the door and toward a hell that officially no longer looks a thing like Los Angeles. She's apparently been redecorating as busily as Chloe did when she first got here. It's not endless fire and moaning damned souls, because the last thing his mother wants is to have to _see_ all the filthy humans sweating and screaming out their tedious little sins. It looks almost like a Gothic cathedral, a dark, demented echo of the magnificent edifices that the humans used to build in honor of Dad. But as Lucifer looks at the soaring vaults and sculpted pillars and beautiful architecture of this church that is not a church, he realizes that it is made out of people. All the denizens of hell his mother could get her hands on, twisted and stacked and braided together and carved like stone, laid like building blocks, silent and cold as marble and granite themselves – except for their eyes. Their eyes are still alive, and Lucifer can see all of them looking at him. Begging him – _him,_ of all people – to help them.

A horrible coldness goes through him. He tells himself that this doesn't matter to him, that they are here because they deserve to be, and that while her methods might be unorthodox (again, literally) at least his mother is carrying out hell's primary function of punishing the guilty. It's rather elegant, even. She always was an aesthete. So he turns his back on them, and allows her to walk him out of the cathedral and into the twisting streets beyond. It looks like a beautiful village in the Swiss Alps or something, picture-perfect old-world charm, if you can overlook the further fact that everything out here is built out of people as well. His mother has really outdone herself. Put the humans exactly where she thinks they belong, closed any procedural loopholes that could be used against her, and built hell into a nice little realm for them to have all to themselves, no interruptions. At least, of course, until she finishes her plan. She's isn't going to live forever in this place that would give Hannibal Lecter nightmares, not when the Silver City awaits.

"So," Charlotte says as they walk. "Chloe made it into heaven, didn't she? Of course she did."

Something about this, even more than the fact that she seems to have precisely guessed their plan, makes Lucifer's hackles stand up. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, son." Charlotte stops, turning to face him. "Surely you must have had some inkling, because you wouldn't have thought that such an absurd plan would work otherwise. You knew that heaven would take special notice of her, because. . .well. I know it's hard, Lucifer, but I'm here if you want to talk about it."

"What – " Wherever this is going, he doesn't like it. "What the bloody hell are you rabbiting on about?"

"Who Chloe is." Charlotte looks at him with her exquisite brow furrowing. "Oh no. You really don't know, do you?"

"Wh – well, I knew you were up to something when you started acting as if you were perfectly happy to have us together, but – "

"Of course I had to do that to her face, didn't I?" Charlotte puts her hand on his arm, and Lucifer jerks back from her touch. "She was already so suspicious and angry at me, I had to – "

"Yes, Mum, because _you tried to kill her – "_

"No, I took her here. I didn't _kill_ her. I was thinking that she'd get to heaven, yes, but that you and I would come with her. That there was no way your father would permit his special little miracle to stay down _here,_ and hence whisk her out. Open that door, the one that matters. Don't you see? It was for us, to get us back – you thought I'd raise an army and storm the gates of heaven, but why would I do that, when this way was so much easier?"

Lucifer feels as if he's still dunked in the freezing waters of Purgatory, or trapped on the return journey, spinning and spinning out of control. His eyes turn to burning coals. _"What are you talking about?"_

Charlotte looks at him searchingly. "Amenadiel didn't tell you either?"

"TELL ME WHAT?"

"Chloe. . ." She takes a breath. "Honey, this is going to be very hard for you to hear, but you have to. Chloe. . . all this time, she's been an agent of your father's, working for him. Unwittingly, it's true, but still. He had your brother bless those humans, John and Penelope, to allow them to have a child. Chloe. He was engineering you two toward each other, trying to trick you to make deals with him on her behalf, to put yourself in his debt. Don't you see? He's been using Chloe to maneuver and manipulate you. Back you into a corner. That's what she is. Just another tool of his. What you had was never real. It was just part of your father still trying to hurt you. My Lucifer, my Samael, my sweet little Sam. Isn't it enough?"

Lucifer stands riveted to the spot. All the air has been driven out of his lungs, the hope out of his heart, the light from his world, the atoms from his soul, until he's not sure how he's still standing upright. He wants to grab her, wants to shake her, wants to shout at her that she's lying, but he can sense the horrible truth behind her words. Is this why Amenadiel seemed so guilty about Chloe? Why he's not bringing Azrael's blade as Lucifer asked, knowing that this sticky situation will be sorted out one way or another, without his interference? Lucifer's worst fear has just been confirmed. Chloe's life, her very existence, is nothing but a bargaining chip that his father can put forward or pull back at will. She hasn't even known that she's been a pawn on a cosmic chessboard, a living embodiment of divine blackmail. As if God Almighty created the light, the very word and element from which Lucifer takes his name, the most brilliant and strong and lovely and kind and brave woman in the entire world, and used her to set the trap. That in reaching for it, in daring to touch it, in thinking he was worthy to have it, he fell into the abyss. Just to be reminded, over and over, how much he isn't. _Monster. Monster. Monster._

Lucifer can't breathe. He's aware of an overwhelming need for a drink or twelve, but even hellish liqueur cannot solve this problem or make him remotely sane again. He can feel the scars on his back burning, the ache of a phantom limb, the way he would assume the form and have his wings burst from him, become the full and terrible Lord of Hell and not this muted, mutilated, powerless, practically _mortal_ version he's let himself devolve into, in pursuit of this ultimate lie. _All this time._ Dad knew he'd ask for Chloe's life. Promise him anything in return. Has probably been laughing his arse off at how gullible Lucifer really is, no matter how shrewd and cynical he likes to think himself. Been dangling them both on puppet strings.

And Lucifer just sent Chloe there. To heaven. Thinking there was finally a chance that he would trust his bloody family to save the one thing in this or any world that means the most to him. What did they do with her? Toss her in the junk drawer with the rest of the tools that had done their job? If they – if they –

 _What you had was never real._

Does Chloe even _like_ him?

Did she ever have a choice, or is she still in that place she was when they first met, proclaiming him repulsive on a chemical level, but frog-marched and forced along to this, just to make the biggest impression when he lost her? He, after all, has prided himself on free will, on thinking he was living his own life at last, his own man, that Dad could never have foreseen or approve of him running away to Los Angeles, that Chloe was the first good thing he had made for himself. Of course he was wrong. Dad was just waiting with the giant flyswatter, grinning.

"Honey?" Charlotte takes hold of his arms. "Lucifer? Sweetie, talk to me. As I said, I know this couldn't be easy, but at least now you know who she is, and why I did this. So you see? We have to get back to heaven. We have to make your father answer for what he did to you, and to Chloe. Once your brother gets here with the blade, we'll have our chance."

Somewhere in Lucifer's numb brain, there is still enough space to be wearily unsurprised that of course his mother knew exactly what he was talking about when he ordered Malcolm to have Amenadiel fetch their sister's "lost item." There can't be too many _other_ relics of Azrael floating happily about the mortal world, after all, and Charlotte was already keen to see its destructive power put to work. So she's known everything, the whole time. Knows he sent Malcolm to get Azrael's blade _and_ Amenadiel, so she will have both her fallen sons, her daughter's weapon, and a freshly revealed incentive for the lot of them to go great gangbusters against heaven. Even worse, Lucifer isn't sure he's going to refuse her one more time. He is burning alive.

"Why don't you sit down?" Charlotte says, steering him into a sidewalk café (again, built of people) and getting them a seat at a table. She conjures up a shot, and Lucifer grabs it by reflex, slamming it down, as she follows it with another and he knocks that one back too. They of course are the only customers here, as the rest of hell's residents have been turned into the fabric of hell itself. The light outside is getting darker blue all the time, ash swirling out of the sky, the entire place straining and splitting at the edges in response to Lucifer's meltdown. He hasn't felt this way in ages. Almost since his first little tumble down here, the stake of his father's betrayal driven through his heart. What does it matter now? There's no point in trying to get back to Los Angeles. It's not home. Nowhere is. His home was never real.

Lucifer does a third shot helpfully provided by his mother, wondering if there is any chance of getting as blackout drunk as he sorely longs to be, but as he pushes the glass back toward her, beckoning her to refill it, she says, "Honey, that's enough for now. We need to think about what we're going to do. That soul you sent back was _very_ drab, but even he has to have reached Amenadiel by now. If he doesn't appear before much longer, we can probably assume that that awful demon of yours has managed to distract him. Honestly, I'm not sure what either of you saw in her, apart from the obvious. But well, we all make mistakes." She pats his hand. "Still, we can't have _Mazikeen_ be the one to gum up the works. There has to be someone else we can send as a backup. Also, about your wings. They wouldn't be quite the same as the real ones, but I could try making you a replacement set. Do you want me to?"

Lucifer grunts, as his concern is with focusing long enough to produce a fourth shot on his own. "Fine, Mum. Whatever makes you happy. I don't bloody care."

"Breakups are always difficult. With your father, it was – " Charlotte stops, as if she was going to say something that she fancied to be comforting, but was caught short by an unexpected pang of real emotion. After all, she and her husband once loved each other enough to literally give birth to all of existence, and the loss of that, its fall and its poisoning and its turning to loathing, is something beyond any and all comparison, a glimpse of just why she is so devoted to this crusade of hers, to avenge it or annihilate it. Quietly, she finishes, "It was, as I said, very hard. I know your feelings for Chloe were real. It will take time to heal."

"Heal?" Lucifer's lip curls. "I'm done _healing,_ Mother. Everyone was right. I've been pretending to be someone I'm not. Killing Uriel wasn't a mistake or an aberration, it was who I am. Even I can't _bloody_ run away from that any more, can I?"

Charlotte's eyes sparkle with unshed tears. "Honey, you've never been good about processing or facing your emotions. But you have to understand that this isn't your fault. You didn't do anything other than what you couldn't help. It's your father's fault for weaponizing it in such a cruel way. You can't beat yourself up over it. Please."

Lucifer doesn't answer, having managed to fill the shot glass and drain it a few more times. He feels a bit of that hazy, delirious buzz he managed to achieve briefly after Uriel's death, but it's already slipping out of his grasp. Other than that, he has no idea. He wants sorely to stop thinking about anything. It would be easier if he was consumed by volcanic rage, burning to take up arms and kick heaven's door down. Easier than this. At least he knows how to deal with rage. Instead he is, in a way even he has never been before, completely and utterly heartbroken.

He stops paying attention to his mother, lets her words wash inconsequentially over him, conjures up a cigarette or five and smokes his way through them. Finally, he can't stand an instant more of anyone's company, especially her and the frozen people staring at him from the walls. Gets to his feet and blunders out, going nowhere down the endless black road. He wonders if he can find the exact spot he fell out of heaven before. He wants to lie down there, and die.

Step by step. Going nowhere. Just as he always has. Deeper and deeper into hell. Back toward the heart of it, the twisted Tree of Knowledge, and the headwaters of the rivers. One of them has to ease his pain. Lethe, the river Lethe, that one sounds good. The one you drink from, and forget everything.

He gets there at last, falls to his knees in the mud, unable to give a single damn about his suit this time. Crawls to the edge of the bank, remembering that first sight of his burns in the water, and how he refused to believe it could possibly be him. He won't have that problem this time. The effect is not likely to be permanent, since he isn't human, but it should keep him in a state of blissful ignorance for a while. When he wakes up, he can always drink more. Maybe eventually, when he does, he won't remember.

Lucifer cups his hands, and dips them in the river of oblivion. Brings the sparkling black water to his lips, and drinks.

* * *

Amenadiel, Maze, Dan, and Ella are presently on the world's worst double date: sitting in the squad car in an alley outside a seedy strip joint in east L.A., where they have tracked the Entity Previously Known as Malcolm. They're afraid he has already managed to change bodies, abandoning Earl Horton for something a bit more _sturdy –_ that, or the world's dirtiest grandpa is currently in there feeling up the exotic dancers. They have to be very careful about how they do this. Ambushing him in the club itself would go tits up in any number of ways, especially if he's gotten powerful enough to jump from host to host without his first vessel having to be killed first. If they go after him in there, he'll have an unlimited choice of bodies to attack, and they have to get him out here, alone, and for the love of all that is holy, not miss their shot.

Amenadiel shifts uncomfortably, as this feels comparable to sitting and awaiting his own execution. The shot in question has to be taken by him, because Dan and Ella, as humans, would go crazy if they held Azrael's blade (Dan already having learned this the hard way) and because he's not at all sure he wants to hand Maze such a dangerous weapon when she is transparently still so livid at him. He thought she might be even slightly mollified by him agreeing to come along and help them out, but if hell hath no fury etc etc., it is several orders of magnitude worse when the woman in question is an actual demon. His sister's blade feels red-hot in his jacket pocket, waiting for the moment when Earl-Malcolm emerges, the other three jump him and subdue him (that is, Amenadiel thinks, a very optimistic notion) and Amenadiel himself uses it to smite the miserable prick out of existence for good. That will solve one of their current problems, at least, before it makes their other one unavoidable. Does he take it to hell, or. . . not?

The atmosphere in the car is tense and strained. Ella tries cracking a few jokes to lighten the mood, but yeah, no. They're all craning forward, watching all the johns emerging from the club in case one of them has an extra-evil aura, but no, they're the usual sad people who go to a skeezy strip club on a weeknight. At last, however, a strip of dim glow falls on the parking lot, and an extremely boozed-up Earl Horton teeters out, looking as if he's probably had more fun in one night than the actual old geezer did in his entire eighty-odd years of life. Apparently Malcolm was too busy whooping it up to go to the hassle of switching bodies just yet.

Amenadiel looks at his companions, nods sharply, and as one, they move. Throw the car doors open and converge on him, as Ella yells, "Hey, buttmunch!" and hurls a garbage can lid at him with considerable accuracy and force for a five-foot-two forensic pathologist, momentarily knocking him off balance. This allows Maze to take a running start and jump on his back, twisting her legs around him and taking him down with a perfectly executed judo throw. Dan punches him before he can recover, grabbing him in a headlock and pinning him, as Maze kicks him hard in the ass, probably just because she can. "Hey!" Dan yells, having thus momentarily apprehended the demonic perp. "Do your stabbing thing!"

Amenadiel fumbles for the blade, as Earl-Malcolm – dazed, but not yet licked – writhes in a vigorous attempt to break free. And then, as Amenadiel's hand closes around Azrael's blade and he pulls it out of his jacket (he really hopes Dan will not report this incident at the station, protocol or otherwise), a foul black smoke starts to pour out of the old man's mouth, engulfing Dan's head in what is unmistakably Eau de Malcolm. Strangled yells can be heard from inside this cloud of doom, Dan's legs jerk, and they overbalance and hit the pavement, as Maze rushes forward and tries to drag them apart – but too late. Earl Horton's body slumps limply, empty, as Dan's eyes glow red. "Hey, pal," he hisses at Amenadiel. "Go on. Kill us both. I'm sure nobody's gonna miss _Dan,_ now are they?"

Amenadiel freezes, as he realizes in horror that a) Malcolm has jumped from Earl's body to Dan's, and b) that if anyone has had a terrible, horrible, no-good experience with the supernatural, it is Daniel Espinoza, who appears to have some kind of cosmic kick-me sign taped to his back. He is thrashing and jerking, clearly trying to fight Malcolm's possession out of him with all his might, but he can't overcome a demon of his old partner's strength. He grins up at Amenadiel. "Come on. Ain't like Lucifer's gonna mind. Detective Douche _and_ ol' Malcolm vaporized at once, it's like a birthday present. The whole two birds, one stone thing."

Amenadiel remains motionless, Azrael's blade in hand, as Ella and Maze look aghast. "No," Ella blurts out. "No, you can't –"

"Kill me!" That's Dan's voice, not Malcolm's, as he must have briefly managed to get back to the controls of his own head. "God dammit, kill me! If that's what you have to do to destroy this son of a bitch, then do it! Just – just tell Trixie that I love her, I didn't choose to leave her – "

"Touching," Malcolm interrupts, as Dan's face jerks back into a sneer. "Real touching. He's ready to make a heroic sacrifice to take me down, just like before. But you're not gonna do it, huh, Amenadiel? You don't have the guts. Never did. Got me to do your dirty work. Now you're too chickenshit to actually kill us. Figures."

Amenadiel stares wildly at Maze, expecting her to rip the blade out of his hand and take care of Dan-Malcolm herself (and then probably him, for good measure) but even Maze seems at a loss, lips white. Dan's back arches as he continues to fight the demonic invasion, groaning and hissing and spitting, and Ella looks at him, looks back at Amenadiel and Maze, and then seems to make up her mind. She pulls off the silver cross necklace she always wears, darts in, and claps it to Dan's forehead, clearly attempting an amateur exorcism. "Oh no you don't, you jerk," she breathes savagely. "Oh no you _don't_."

Dan-Malcolm howls, eyes going the same red as Lucifer's in his devil form, as black smoke starts to gust from his nose and mouth. Ella hangs on as tenaciously as a barnacle, reciting the Lord's Prayer loudly, then adding _"Expelliarmus!"_ at the end when she can't think of anything else appropriately demon-driving-out-y. Then there is a final jerk and spasm, the black cloud gushes out of Dan's mouth as Amenadiel takes a desperate swing at it with Azrael's blade but has, of course, no body to stab, and it shoots off down the alley like an evil comet, vanishing with a shriek. Dan sways on the spot, then topples forward with a crash, and doesn't move.

"Hey," Ella says, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Hey. Hey, you okay?"

Amenadiel and Maze look at each other, torn between running after Malcolm's escaped entity that is about to take over another body, or likewise going to see if Dan has survived his latest unpleasant brush with the powers of hell. Judging by the groan that he utters, sitting up slowly with blood pouring from his nose, he has, even though he does not look to have enjoyed the experience. "Next time," he says thickly, wiping his face on his sleeve, "just stab him, okay?"

"I – wasn't going to kill you." Amenadiel shoots a glance back down the alley, briefly wondering if he should in fact have done so. If it's true what Malcolm said, and he's too much of a coward to ever face up to the grim reality of doing what it takes. Then he shakes his head, furious with himself. "No matter what he said, I think people _would_ miss you. Even Lucifer."

"Yeah, I don't know about that." Dan wipes his nose again, then looks at Ella. "Hey, thanks for getting that dick out of me." He pauses, considers, then grimaces. "Wow. That was _really_ not what I was trying to say, was it?"

They can't help it, they all snort with unsteady laughter, as Ella pats him bracingly on the shoulder. "I got you covered, man. No problem, okay?"

"No," Dan says. "Thanks. I mean it."

Ella pauses, then nods solemnly, and takes his elbow to help him to his feet. They stand there in the middle of the strip-club parking lot, aware that they were making a lot of noise and somebody is probably going to come investigate. They still need to go after Malcolm post-haste – he's no less dangerous without a body, and possibly even more, if he just conducts those same sort of dive-bombing raids on the nearest humans – and they take a step toward the police cruiser. Just one step. Because at that moment, Amenadiel feels a familiar bone-deep chill, the way the world goes still and somnolent, in the way that can only mean the arrival of –

"Hey, big brother."

Oh, shit.

The Angel of Death is leaning casually against the squad car, wearing a black leather jacket and a bored expression, messy braid flung over her shoulder and tendrils blowing in her ancient golden eyes, as she looks from Maze, to Dan, to Ella, and finally to Amenadiel, who still has her knife clutched in his hand. "You know," she says. "I don't remember telling you that you could play with my toys."

"Azrael. Hi." Amenadiel darts a hounded glance over his shoulder, trying to judge if the other three can see her. He can't be sure. "I – look, this is important, we really need to – "

"Catch the escaped demon." Azrael pushes off the car and saunters closer, beautiful and dangerous as a jaguar in the jungle. "I know."

"You do?"

"You're _really_ out of the loop, aren't you?"

"Yes, actually! I am!" Amenadiel wants to scream in frustration that even his sister knows more about this than he does, that everyone has gotten the full briefing while he only gets cryptic and useless snippets. He knows damn well that he's out of favor, but do they have to rub it in his face like this? "I'm an idiot! Happy?"

Azrael regards him keenly for a long moment, before her gaze moves past him, to Maze, Dan, and Ella. All of them stare blankly through her, motionless. "Short on help, too?"

"Why are you here?" Amenadiel has a brief and terrible thought that Dan didn't actually survive the possession, and she's here to swoop him up and carry him off. That's the usual reason Azrael visits the mortal realm, after all. "Look, you can have the knife back, I swear, I wasn't the one who borrowed it, we just need it to – "

"Again. I said. I know." Azrael continues to regard him with that same penetrating look. Amenadiel is older than she is, though not by much, but he often doesn't feel like it. "And I wasn't even sent here for it."

"Oh?"

"No." She hesitates, ever so briefly. "I'm here trying to stop the apocalypse."

* * *

Chloe was not intending to use her power again on this go-round in hell. She really wasn't. She knows how tempting it was, and how close she came to giving in. Best to just avoid the problem, and quit cold turkey. Such, at least, was the well-intentioned plan.

That, however, was before they got here, this – _whatever it is –_ is going on, there's no sight or sound of anybody or anything anywhere, and the air itself feels thick and raw and wrong. This being hell, it's beside the point to ask why anything is creepy or weird or generally a bad omen, but Chloe stands tensely still, trying to think what to do next. Did Lucifer not make it back from Purgatory? _Did_ he make it back, and then get chucked into Mum's old cage, by Mum, the Morrigan, or someone else (has there been a breakout on the tyrant wing?) Did Malcolm come back with Azrael's blade, and stab him when he wasn't looking? Or –

Chloe sternly informs herself to get a grip. Whatever _is_ going on, running through various panicky scenarios is not going to help. She inhales a deep breath, tasting a whiff of sulfur in the back of her throat, and turns to her dad. "Okay," she says. "I'm going to try something. I'm not exactly sure how it's going to turn out, but I have the basic idea. Sort of."

"You're familiar with how. . . all this works, then?" John waves a hand at their dank, dismal, foreboding surroundings. "Chloe, honey, you're still planning to go home, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?"

John makes an indeterminate noise in his throat, but decides not to waste time with further parental admonishment. "Gotcha, then. Tell me what I need to do."

"You don't need to do anything. Just hold onto my arm, and I'm going to try to move us. It's the way Lucifer travels around here, he doesn't actually walk from place to place. I have the general idea, but I don't want to, I don't know, Splinch us or something."

"Right," John says. "Lucifer does it. So it's clearly a good plan."

Chloe glances up at him with a frown, reminded of the fact that while she is talking about the master of this place as a man, a familiar friend and lover that she trusts and can't wait to get back to, all her father hears is that his only begotten daughter has literally fallen in with the Devil, is comfortable using the dread powers of hell for herself, and just seems awfully comfortable here. He trusts her judgment and he loves her more than anything, hence why he insisted on accompanying her down here from heaven, but she hopes that if _(when)_ they cross paths with Lucifer again, he isn't being too, well, Lucifer. He knows what her dad means to her and he's all right with it, but he can't be expecting to see Disapproving Father John Decker in the flesh (or whatever he is). What with the trouble they're already having with his mom, the last thing they need is to set off his other clusterfuck of parental Issues.

Chloe pushes that thought away as well, as her dad grips her arm. "On three," she says. "One, two. . . three."

It feels like pushing through a tidal wave of molasses with a detour through an M.C. Escher painting, trying to shift from one place to another while all the accustomed dimensions and proportions and spatial relations completely crap out on them. Chloe's brain has been too flattened to accommodate much of a coherent thought, but she does realize that this must take centuries of practice, as well as probably an angelic pedigree, to pull off quickly and effortlessly. It's the furthest thing from graceful as she and her dad struggle like bugs stuck to flypaper, the squeezing sensation is briefly unbearable, and then they shoot out and land on something wet and squashy. It appears to be, as Chloe registers when her vision finally comes back online, a riverbank. A huge, gnarled black tree towers overhead, with roots like great snakes, and she can hear running water. This place seems familiar, very familiar, but she can't put her finger on why.

That question, however, is disregarded in the next instant, as she catches sight of a body sprawled facedown in the mud – a very familiar one, long and lanky and dark-haired and wearing its usual dapper black suit, now rumpled and filthy. Heart in her throat, Chloe bolts to her feet and runs to him. "Lucifer? Lucifer!"

"That's him?" Clearly John was not expecting the Devil to be passed out – he's breathing, he can't be dead, he can't be – in a wrinkled suit on a muddy riverbank, and Chloe likewise was hoping that this first meeting would go better. When she pictured it, Lucifer was conscious, for a start, and upright. Did Charlotte do something to him after all, or – this _is_ Lucifer, master of self-sabotage – did he do it himself? But why? She didn't leave _that_ long ago, unless this is another of hell's tricks and he just –

"Lucifer. Hey." Chloe crouches down, rolling him onto his back. His eyes are closed, face pale as ice. "Lucifer, wake up, damn it. Hey. Hey!"

It takes a few more moments, but at last his eyelashes flutter. She grips his shoulders, waiting tensely, until they finally open all the way. He stares at her with no apparent recognition, then breaks into a leering grin. "H _'lo_ there, darling," he slurs. "You're quite pretty, aren't you? Did it hurt when _you_ fell out of heaven?"

"Wh – " Chloe is about to ask how he knows that she and John actually did fall out of heaven, before she realizes that this is once more overlooking the larger concern. "Lucifer, what are you talking about? It's me. Chloe."

"Chloe?" He eyeballs her up and down. "Definitely a ten, you'll be happy to know. Great cheekbones. Really spectacular tits, too."

"Wow," John says. "He's a real winner."

"And who are _you?"_ Lucifer's head rolls in his direction. "You're a bit too square-jawed and self-righteous for my taste, but we can make do. Devil's threesome, is it?" He reaches for the buttons of his grubby shirt. "Not feeling quite myself, but if you give me a moment, I'm sure – "

Chloe smacks his hand down, mortified. "Lucifer! That is my _father!"_

"Your father?" He stares again, then sighs deeply and shakes his head. "Well, that's just the way to spoil all my fun, isn't it?"

"Yeah," John says coldly. "I think I've seen enough."

"No, seriously. There's something wrong with him."

"I'd say there is."

"I mean this isn't like him. It used to be, when we met, but. . ." Chloe looks around for something that could have possibly wrought such an alarming change in Lucifer, a reversion to the point that he doesn't even recognize her and thinks she's some random hell floozy, or whatever is going on in his tiny little mind. Her eye falls on the river, its alluring black waters that whisper and sparkle, promising ease and comfort and oblivion. "Lucifer, did you drink from that?"

He peers at it blurrily. "Must've."

"What is it?"

"River Lethe, darling. Makes you forget all your troubles. _Poof."_ He waves an airy hand. "Really good, want a shot? Only you're human, it would definitely erase everything for good."

"Why would you drink from the river of forgetfulness?" She practically shakes him.

"Can't remember. That's the point." He giggles. "Give me a kiss, it might help."

"I am absolutely not kissing you," Chloe says coldly. "Smacking you upside the head, maybe."

"Ooh, like to play rough, do you?" He does that old lascivious thing with his tongue. "Go on, hit me. Really put some extra mustard into it."

Chloe considers him, then does as ordered. It feels good.

"Ow." Lucifer touches his slapped cheek gingerly. "That hurt."

"Yeah, buddy. It does. You know why? No, of course you don't, because you drank from that stupid river and blottoed yourself out and are now acting like a complete dick in front of me and my dad, who's actually here to help us and not to listen to you embarrass yourself. Because I've always been able to hurt you, and we've never even known exactly why." Chloe's voice is rough, but she's afraid it's going to break, and she refuses to let that happen. "So either you wake the literal hell up and get your shit together, or we keep up with the smacking and see what that does. I'm willing to commit for as many as it takes."

Lucifer stares at her with that same fuddled expression, but something about this seems to pierce the fog. He keeps on staring, dark brows drawn, until slowly, a look of mingled shock and horror crosses his face. "Ch. . ." he says, tongue fuzzy. "Chloe?"

"Yes. Who did you think it was?"

"But you – " He sits bolt upright, clearly regrets it, and groans. "You're – you're not supposed to be here! This is just another trick, isn't it? After what the bloody tree did to me earlier? You're not here, just like you weren't last time. You're in Purgatory or Heaven or Earth or literally any-bloody-where but here. You can't be."

Chloe is about to ask if he had some kind of vision of her earlier, if hell actually did affect him, but stops. "Well, it's not a trick. I came back for you."

"You. . ." Clearly this is not even in the realm of computing for him. "No! I sent you on so you could _leave,_ Detective! To go back to Earth, to your family! What the blazes could possibly make you want to – "

"Lucifer, I just said it. I'm not leaving you behind here. I – I met your sisters. If I can get their attention again, I think they'll get all of us out. We just have to – "

"No." He looks aghast. "No, that's just what Mum wanted in the first place! Have someone come along to pluck you out of here, and she can tag along! And you – "

He stops. He looks sickened.

"What?" Chloe puts a hand on his shoulder, gives him a little shake. "What?"

"You. . ." He rubs a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Detective. I would have warned you if I'd known. I'm sorry that you. . . I'm sorry that my bloody father did what he. . . well, there's no help for it, no point dragging it out. Just go. It's easier that way. It's probably what you actually want to do, isn't it? Pop off with Daddy here, and. . ."

He stops again. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I wouldn't have done any of it to you, if I'd known."

Chloe begins to wonder if he's not actually back to himself, but she's slapped him into a different personality instead. "Lucifer, what are you _talking – "_

"That you. . ." He can't seem to bring himself to say it, then tries again, furious with himself. "I know you don't really like me, Detective. You've said so, after all. Many times. If I was smart, I'd have worked it out before, but we all know I'm not. Or maybe I never bloody asked because I was too afraid that this would be the answer. You're just one of Dad's toys. His blackmail for me." He turns his head. "I don't want you to have that life. You need to get away from me."

Chloe's stomach does an unpleasant flip as she recalls how Gabriel and Azrael seemed oddly willing to help her and her dad, how she thought it couldn't be the same for just any mortal who wandered in there, even one who has visited both heaven and hell while still living, and who loves the Devil. She almost preferred blissful, babbling Lucifer to this version. "Tell me what you're talking about, right now."

"You. . ." He fumbles for the words. "You only ever kept me around because you were forced to. Of course you couldn't actually care for someone like me."

"What? No. That's not true. I chose it. Lucifer, just shut up and listen to me. Nobody forced me to do anything. I _chose_ you. I chose what happened, the same way you chose to follow me down here, and I chose to come back. I don't believe in fate, remember? Any of that. I – Lucifer, your mother asked me to betray you at the trial, and in return, she would make Perry Smith plead guilty, and I – like I said, you are the best partner I have ever had. The best." She doesn't know if she's making sense, can only hear the way the words are spilling out of her, sharp and raw and jumbled. "I didn't do it. I wanted him to go to jail more than anything for killing my dad, but – "

"Whoa," John Decker says. "Chloe. What are you – back in heaven, I asked about Joe Fields – "

"Joe Fields didn't kill you. He made a deal from the prison warden, Perry Smith, to take the fall for your murder and get payments for his daughter." Chloe closes her eyes, vainly fighting tears. She can't believe she is saying this in front of them, in front of both of them. "He's dead. Smith is the one who did it – he was arrested, Lucifer and Maze and I – you don't know Maze, but we arrested him – but he got off. I – Dad, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have made sure Perry Smith went to jail, I had my chance, but I – I couldn't – "

"Hey." John puts a hand on her shoulder, gripping hard. "Chloe, sweetheart. Take a breath."

"I'm sorry," Chloe cries again, stumbling to her feet, as her dad reaches for her and hugs her hard, chin on her head. "Dad, I'm so sorry. I let you down, and if you're angry with me, I – "

"Shhh. Monkey, shh." He continues to hold her tightly, and she gasps a few strangled sobs into his shoulder, not even able to look yet to see how Lucifer is taking this. He seems to have become convinced for some inexplicable reason that she can't possibly have any genuine affection for him, that it's been all a crass and cynical manipulation, that there is no possible way she could actually have gone from finding him utterly obnoxious to burning her ticket home in order to take a chance to come back to hell and save him too. He's wrong, because Lucifer is always wrong about everything when it comes to emotions, but to blurt out in front of her dad that she loved the Devil more than justice for him – it sounds stupid, impetuous, shallow, like she's betrayed everything he wanted her to be, failed in his memory and in her attempts to ever be as good as him. She can't. She can't.

But she's Chloe Decker, and she can. She has to. And she does.

After a long moment, Chloe pulls herself together, with a raw, gulping breath. "Dad," she says again. "I don't – "

"Shh," he says again, eyes glittering. "Listen to me, baby. I'm dead, remember? I've been dead for almost twenty years now. You can't live a life beholden to what I should have done, what I _might_ have done – it's not what's going to happen. I don't want that for you. I never have."

"But I. . ." Chloe sniffs. "Dad. . ."

"Look," John Decker says. "I don't get your relationship with. . . him." He raises an eyebrow coldly at Lucifer, who raises an eyebrow coldly right back. "Obviously, I can't. But I'm also not going to yell at you for growing up. My little girl. I – that's how I remember you, because you were only nineteen when I died. But you're not that. You're a grown woman. You have a life. You've changed. And you. . ." He swallows. "You have had to let me go."

Chloe doesn't know what to say. She feels completely gutted. "I don't want to," she says, half in a whisper. "I don't want to let you go, Dad."

"Baby, I don't want to either." His voice breaks in earnest. "Why do you think I volunteered to come with you? As I said, I want all the time in the world with you, all the time we never got to have. But we do have this. We have now. I'm not leaving you just yet. We still have to finish this. We still have to work out how. Hey. Decker Can-Do."

"Decker Can-Do." Chloe smiles, eyes watery. It's only then she dares to glance at Lucifer, who looks pole-axed. This might be the first time in his life that he has seen a father absolving and forgiving a child for not being _enough,_ for not doing everything the father wanted for them (or at least, what the child thinks the father wanted from them). Right in the middle of whatever stupid spiel he was on, about how _his_ father has only used her as a plaything and a puppet. Her father telling her to let go, to move on. That she has to live for her, and not for him, and that he loves her anyway.

"I. . ." Lucifer begins, opens and shuts his mouth. "Detective, I. . ."

"Shut up," Chloe says. Steps away, kneels in front of him, and – having found before that it is an _excellent_ way to make him put a cork in whatever tangent he is on, not caring that her dad is right there, not _caring –_ kisses the absolute daylights out of Lucifer. With extra mustard.

When they finally break apart, Lucifer looks utterly bedazzled, John Decker has cleared his throat loudly several times, and Chloe takes another deep breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says hoarsely, "and frankly, right now, I don't care. It's true. We still have to get out of here. Both of us. So come on."

Lucifer blinks several more times, looks at her face, her offered hand, and does not seem quite sure how to respond. It's clearly still his instinct to think that she's lying or being shoehorned into this, that there is a catch, that this is one of his own diabolical deals reflected back on him. Does he take her hand because he wants to, or does he not take her hand because he thinks it's what his dad wants him to do, and he refuses to do what he thinks his dad wants him to do, even at the cost of his own happiness? Even if it's her. Even if it's them. Even if she has always been the one thing in heaven or earth or hell that he cannot stand to lose.

Her dad told her that it wasn't about what he wanted, or what she thought she owed to him, but what she chose, how she wanted to live. It's impossible to say if that's having any effect on Lucifer at all.

"Lucifer," Chloe says quietly. "Please."

He hesitates a final moment, then nods. Starts to reach for her.

"Well," a familiar voice says, just out of sight, among the darkness of the twisted roots. "That took long enough. Now it is, at last, _finally_ time to get on with it."


End file.
